


In Ink

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (sort of enemies anyways), A Little bit of Homophobia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dorian doesn't treat Lavellen as a slave, Dorian is a good guy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Fake Marriage, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, Helping Each Other, M/M, More tags later, Pre-Inquisition, Slavery, Taking some liberties with how magic works, but thats part of Dorian's story anyways, just to clarify, lots of flirting, mild violence, mute character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22030117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dorian Pavus had so vehemently disagreed to his father's urgings to agree to an arranged marriage as to produce an heir- as is Tevinter custom. That is, until he discovered his father's plans to use blood magic to change him. To save himself, and who knows how many others, Dorian must marry a woman he barely knows and would very much like not to reproduce with. To make matters worse, his father has bestowed him a wedding "gift"- a Dalish slave who has been injured by his captors. Dorian takes it upon himself to do everything in his power to help this man, but what will it take?
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 17
Kudos: 73
Collections: Anonymous





	1. The "Gift"

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by @robberreynard 's Chains Both Iron and Silk, a oneshot from a prompt list.  
> Not really sure why, but this concept just got stuck in my head, and here we are!

Of course, his father would do such a thing; it was as though he thought of Dorian as more animal than human. He had never owned a slave himself, but his family’s were largely voluntary servants- people unfortunate enough not to be born into nobility and without magic to gain them access to other jobs. They were paid well and treated kindly in the House of Pavus, but none were elven. It seems that’s where his father draws the line; elves aren’t ‘human’ enough to be sentient in his eyes it seems. Then again, neither is Dorian.

  
_A gift. He calls this a gift?!_

  
Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose as he stares through the bars of the cage. Bright blue eyes glare back at him from under tousled dark chestnut hair; dark markings Dorian thinks are Dalish stand out from the elf’s milky face. The elf stays huddled in the farthest corner from Dorian.

  
He seems younger than Dorian, but not by too much- maybe in his mid to late twenties. He has a strong jaw line, and Dorian can make out the lines of toned muscle, though he seems to be greatly underweight. He looks like he was built like a warrior or rogue before he was captured. And judging by the age of the scar across his throat, still angry and red but mostly healed, it has been some time since he was first captured. If he’s fortunate for anything, it’s that the slavers didn’t kill him when they sliced his vocal cords. It gives Dorian a sick feeling in his stomach to even imagine what the boy must have been through.

  
Ah, yes. The guilt. He’s not going to get out of this one easily, is he? _It’s hard being the kindest and most empathetic mage in Tevinter sometimes._

  
“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I assure you, I’m not going to hurt you.” The elf only scowls more furiously, leaning back against the bars as if to get farther away from Dorian. “My father is sick, but he’s right about one thing. If he sends you back to wherever he got you or if I simply let you go, you’ll be snatched up by slave traders again or worse.”

  
He wonders if the elf understood his father’s _implication_ as to how Dorian was intended use the elf, not that he ever would, though his father refused to say exactly what he meant by that. ‘to find satisfaction’ amid his listless marriage, he said. He truly could never understand, could he? He thinks Dorian has a disorder, and one that makes him a monster- with monstrous desires to fill however he pleases. But that is how it is in Tevinter, isn’t it? Relations between men should only be done with a favored slave to save one’s family the embarrassment of attaching emotion to it.

  
He had some choice words for his father when the elf was offered to him. He would have liked to release the boy there, but that wasn’t much of an option. And rushing to his aid would end terribly with the heartless scum that are the onlookers. _They mangled his vocal cords because they didn’t like the fight in him_. He can't even imagine the horror that man must have experienced- is likely still experiencing. 

“Amatus!” he hears Lady Isabella call from the Grand Hall entrance. _His wife_. At their wedding reception. How wonderful. She has been putting on quite a show as to her devotion to him tonight, though they had already established a strained relationship from the start. She has a lover in another city. Moving to live with Dorian in their new home has embittered her greatly. As far as he can tell, she’s eager to get the copulation over with so she can solidify her name in house Pavus before returning to her lover. He is less eager for that partially facet of their fraudulent marriage- but what choice did he have but agree to his fathers demands!? If he didn’t…

“I must get back to this wretched affair, but once we return to the house, I will try to come up with something to help you.” Dorian says to the elf quietly before he departs.

“What is that?” Isabella asks as he approaches her.

“Father has gifted us a house elf.” Dorian says nonchalantly. Though the idea of being so casual about this is absurd to him, one must play the game.

“I’ve never seen one like that.” She mutters.

Dorian attempts to lead her away, almost concerned about what may happen if she becomes too interested in the boy. “I’m sure he’ll be fine; let’s return to the party, shall we?”

“It looks feral.”

  
_It._

  
\-----------------

The drivers leave the caged elf in the stables outside the mansion; though the new home is a large sprawling estate largely adorned with white and black marble and touches of gold, the stables are much less extravagant. Once everyone is gone and Isabella has left to her chambers for the night, Dorian sneaks out.

  
When he enters the stables, he sees the elf scurry as far away from him in the cage as he can get. It gives him a terrible sinking feeling at the sight.

  
“I brought you food,” He gestures to the bowl of stew and bread from the kitchen along with water in a crystal glass and even proper silverware to use. Dorian pulls out a key from his pocket “I’m going to unlock this now. I promise, I’m not here to hurt you.”

He opens the cage door and places the bowl of food just outside the cage and steps back. The elf stares at him for some time, unmoving.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you think.” He mutters, and the elf raises his eyebrow at him. “I don’t see what I’d gain from doing such a thing.”  
It seemed to help as the boy slowly reaches for the food, eating quickly, but never taking his eye of Dorian.

“It’s my understanding you should be careful not to overeat after not having food for some time. Will you be okay with this until morning?”

The elf doesn’t react, his eyes boring into Dorian’s. Maybe this is useless. But he has to try.

Dorian sighs, he needs to help him. He walks away from the elf as he racks his brain for an idea. Who would have thought turning one’s back on a furious and distrusting elf would be a mistake?

  
Dorian is thrown to the ground, and before he knows it, glowing eyes are glaring down at him with a butter knife pressed to his throat. It doesn’t seem like much, but almost anything can be a deadly weapon if thrust through one’s esophagus hard enough. Dorian could throw the boy off. Likely, in this state, his own strength would be enough. He’s a powerful mage with countless tricks. He could set him aflame or conjure the deepest fears hidden deep within his heart.  
But he hesitates.

  
The other man’s gaze is frightful- filled with more than just hatred- deep fear and agony. The Horror might not even have an affect on someone like him, and who is Dorian to allow further suffering. He’s never been one for passive magic, but he remembers a few spells. He casts an aura of calm to relax the elf, if only for a moment. It works quickly, the fear drifting away just long enough for him to get a hold of his senses. The elf jumps back from Dorian, giving him one last glance before he turns to run.  
Dorian is struck with panic. “Wait! Stop!” he throws up a barrier over the barn door instinctively before the elf can escape. He turns toward Dorian with betrayal in his eyes.

“Please, trust me just this much. You are going to die if you leave here. You are deep in Minrathous, the capital city. Guards will have you in a second just because you are a Dalish elf.” He lowers the barrier as if extending an olive branch to show he means no harm “By all means, throw yourself to the wolves if you prefer. But if you stay, you have my word that I’ll help you.”

It seems to take a moment as the elf glances between Dorian and the freedom outside. He knows Dorian is right; it’s reflected by the defeat in his eyes. The elf sighs heavily. He leans against the barn wall and slumps to the floor as if to show he will stay.

If anything good has happened tonight, it might be that Dorian can sleep knowing he won’t wake to reports of a wild Dalish elf slain at the hands of ‘brave Minrathous templars’. “I brought you a blanket and a pillow. I know it’s not much. Tomorrow, I can set up a space for you in the servant’s quarters, but Lady Isabella won’t have you inside until then, and it’s better not to involve her.”

The elf nods, anger no longer as bright in his eyes, though Dorian can tell he still doesn’t trust him.

“Can you read and write in the common tongue?”

The elf huffs impatiently and shoots him a look as if that is a stupid question.

“Alright, alright. I’ve never met a Dalish elf before. I don’t know what you learn growing up.” He says, a hint of playfulness in his voice. “What’s your name? Can you write it in the dirt for me?”

The elf glares at him, but he can see the boy is considering it.

“I understand not everyone is charmed by my good looks and glowing personality, but it would be beneficial to know each other’s names as long as we have to interact.”

  
The elf gives in, the butter knife still gripped in his hand. “H-A-L-E-I-R”

  
“Haleir?” Dorian tries. “I’m Dorian, though you might already know that,” he stumbles on his words. “I must go, but I’ll be back with food in the morning.”

  
Dorian stops on his way out, heart heavy as he glances back to Haleir. His knuckles are white where he grips the knife as hard as he can- likely a mix of fear, anger, and adrenaline; such a deathgrip would not be ideal for combat, but he clings to it like a lifeline. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but I believe what’s happened to you is wrong. I couldn’t live with myself if I ignored that.”


	2. Shattered

Haleir has been in Tevinter for almost two months, and not one person he has crossed paths with has shown any decency. There is no reason he should trust this mage. Just because he has not been hurt yet does not mean he won’t be soon. This Dorian could be pretending to care for all he knows. He used magic on him, after all. Haleir isn’t unfamiliar with mages- they’re not disdainful in his clan like many humans in Ferelden think, and his closest friend is a mage, but he hadn’t experienced what Dorian did to him before. It was like his heart no longer dictated his own thoughts momentarily- Though he still thought of his intent to hurt Dorian, he couldn’t control his emotions as a heavy haze of calm filled his senses to a point he hadn’t felt peace in many months.

How far do his powers go? Can he be controlled to do things against his will? Or brainwashed? And why help a Dalish elf? Is he doing all this just to make him healthy and trusting for some blood magic ritual? Will he actually help him get home? He really doubts it. But after the past few months, what could he do? If Dorian told any truths, it was that he would die leaving this place on his own. If he could just stay on his good side, maybe he could survive long enough to grow stronger and escape properly.

The next morning, Dorian brings him to a small room attached to the large mansion. It has a bed and a small chest filled with fresh clothes and blankets. There is a basin and wooden tub to wash up in and a fresh breakfast of bread, meat, and fruit waiting for him.

“It isn’t much, but hopefully it will do, for now anyways.”

Haleir keeps his distance from Dorian as best he can. If the mage were to attack, he’d like a chance to outrun him at least. He tries not to be obvious about it though. Until Dorian outstretches his hand to gesture and Haleir flinches, he fucking _flinches_ by instinct, and the second he does, he can see the pity in the mage’s eyes. How pathetic he must seem.

“I- um,” Dorian begins. He takes a large step back, putting more space between them. Enough that it lets Haleir breathe easier. “I would help you return to your people or at least Ferelden right away, but I’m afraid it would cause a bit of a disturbance.”

_How convenient._

“You see, it’s custom that after arranged marriages that spouses don’t leave the city for an allotted amount of time. You know, to prevent them from running away without- well, you get it.”

 _Sort of, sure._ Haleir grimaces slightly. He’s eager to get home and the longer he stays here it seems less likely that will ever happen. He doesn’t react to Dorian, only giving him a cold stare.

“What I mean is if I leave, my father will hunt me down and find us. Then, we will be in much _much_ more trouble than before…”

  
_Why does it matter so much? And why would Dorian want to leave so badly he’s been put on house arrest?_ Haleir doesn’t have much time to wonder about it before Dorian heads toward the door to leave.

Dorian seemed to be waiting for some kind of response, he pauses before continuing “Ah- well, there is a bath drawn for you. Take today to rest. Tomorrow, we will have to think about a job for you so Lady Isabella doesn’t get too suspicious- playing favorites isn’t exactly looked upon well in Tevinter. I’ll see what I can do about your injuries too.”

Haleir isn’t sure what to think, but a day of rest is enough to distract him. Despite seeing no evidence of heating coals, he finds the water filling the tub is warm. It’s nothing compared to the hot springs he used to bathe in, but feeling clean again does a lot to lift his spirits. Finally, he can almost recognize himself once more.

He doesn’t risk exploring the mansion and opts to stay in his room. He finds some books, some in Tevine and some in Common, and browses through them. His thoughts often wander back to his clan- his friends and family. Green tree tops and golden sunlight of open air haunt his dreams. He thinks back to the feeling of roaming freely with his people, and dreams of crisp air and chirping birds on a carefree day.

His people…

Only a few of them were taken. He knows not where they are now.

He prays they are safe. Though, he knows they likely are not.

\--

He wakes abruptly the next morning to a tapping on his door, a gentle knock reverberating through the wood. He bolts up, a defensive energy humming in his brain, tingling through his body, ready to fight. He has to push it down and will himself to breathe slower; he doesn’t know what it’s like to be a slave, doesn’t know what’s expected of him, but ignoring whoever that is doesn’t seem like a good idea.

On bare feet, he steps carefully over the stone floor to approach the door, cracking it open slowly.

“Ah, I was afraid you might not be up yet.”

 _He is now._ Does this mage not understand the exhaustion that comes with the pain he’s experienced? No, clearly he’s never known oppression, Haleir thinks.

  
But Dorian smiles, a fresh meal in his hands, still warm from the kitchen. That is enough to convince Haleir to open the door to allow the mage in his quarters.

  
Dorian hands him the meal to eat as he begins to speak, “I brought you a quill and some paper this time. I thought it might aid in communicating more clearly.”

He pulls the set out of his satchel and lays it on the side table next to Haleir’s bed. Haleir sits on the edge of the bed as he eats. His eyes roam over Dorian suspiciously as he considers this proposal. The mage is dressed less formally than the day before, but still he is adorned with the richest fabrics and metals the elf has ever seen. He wears a cloak of heavy black velvet, and his fingers are adorned with fine gold rings. His eyes are a bright grey- no, silver, but he looks tired, worn somehow.

It has been months since he had his voice ripped from him in violence and pain he had not imagined possible. Yet, this invitation to communicate doesn’t feel as tempting as one would assume. Any word he writes will be marked in ink forever- permanent- and every thought he communicates could be used against him.

“Would you mind telling me where you’re from?”

Haleir stares at him blankly. He has a few options: Tell the truth and risk his clan being found by more slavers, lie, or say nothing. He sides with nothing and stares at Dorian blankly, blinking as he continues to eat.

“Alright then, fair enough- we need to find a job for you here to do until I can help you more. If you don’t do anything it will seem like- well, Lady Isabella might think-” Dorian struggles to find the right wording, seemingly uncomfortable with what he has to say. “Erm, it won’t go well. Let’s just find something simple so that you may get the rest you need. I’m sure you’ve had a rough time recently.”

This seems reasonable, though he knows not what implications Dorian so wishes to avoid. Haleir nods tentatively.

“Wonderful,” Dorian clasps his hands together. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit about yourself so that I may pair you with a job best suited to you. What did you do when you lived with your people- your clan?”

Haleir thinks before he takes the quill to write “Travel- work with animals- hunting and gathering” he shrugs- he did many things. How is he supposed to list them all. Dalish, though with their specialties, gain many skills from those around them.

“Hm, you hunted?” Dorian ponders as he reads. “What was your weapon of choice?”

“Knives,” he writes in response.

Dorian seems to find something humorous about that, smirking as he chuckles softly. “I suppose I should have guessed that already. Very well,” he seems to think for a moment before adding “You could work in the kitchen.”

Haleir only raises an eyebrow at him. Working in the kitchen is very different than hunting in the forests. And he only knows how to make Dalish dishes.

“Ah, yes, you could prep for the chef. You’ll just cut up the ingredients they need ahead of time.”

He thinks about this for a moment. He will have to wake early in the morning, but the work won’t keep him up late at night, and if he’s lucky, he can avoid most people. It calms Haleir a bit to know he will have access to knives, just in case. Perhaps that is the main motivating factor. That, and he may be able to smuggle a loose knife out of the kitchen and into his quarters for safety.

He nods softly to Dorian who smiles in response “does it sound alright to you? If not, I can find something else.”

“It’s okay,” he writes. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do your people typically hunt?” Dorian asks, starting to shift the conversation to more personal matters.

Haleir is well aware of the rumors _shemlin_ in Orlais and Ferelden believe; they make monsters out of the Dalish, talk about them stealing children and practicing blood magic on innocents. It's just another way for them to justify their mass genocide at the hands of the Chantry. He wouldn't normally make light of such atrocities, but if it makes him seem less pliable... “Anything.” he writes, smirking as Dorian seems to consider the response.

  
\--------

On his first day working, things go mostly smoothly. The other workers are humans, quite different looking than Dorian and Lady Isabella; the years of their lives and the weight of their stress shows on their faces. Most ignore him throughout the day, though he does hear a few whispers of ‘knife ears’ and other Tevene words he heard the slavers call him many times before.

Every night, Dorian brings him food from the kitchen. He speaks a bit, tells him he’s researching ways to heal his wound, and cracks a few jokes. Haleir doesn’t respond much, and he’d hate to admit it, but he does start to feel more relaxed around the mage.

“Are you getting on well in the kitchen?” he asks one night. “They’re a brutish looking sort, aren’t they? Seems the butcher might enjoy his job too much; it’s almost in the Tevinter gene… Regardless, do tell me if they give you any trouble.”

Haleir only nods. He always brings Haleir a quill and parchment when he visits at night. He’s hesitant to write anything at first, but Dorian pesters him until he gets some sort of response. It’s odd though. It’s been a long time since he’s been able to communicate full ideas to people, but seeing them on paper feels… odd.

“I see you haven’t touched the book I brought you,” Dorian says softly, almost with disappointment in his voice.

Yes, the mage found an old book on Tevinter sign language and offered it to Haleir. As tempting as it felt, as soon as he opened the book he felt more defeated than before. It felt like if he sat down and read it, he would be accepting what had been done to him. He’s not sure he can do that.

He casts his eyes downward, shaking his head solemnly.

“Right- well, I just wanted to give you options. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” Dorian says, surprisingly patiently.

He feels almost guilty over the Mage’s concern and tries to shift the topic away “You like books, don’t you?” he writes, black ink seeping into the old parchment. He tries to write small enough to save room on the page. It’s the first personal question he’s asked Dorian, and it seems to work well.

“Oh, of course! Books are filled with so much wonder and excitement. It’s important for mages to study a lot, but I’ll admit, even I do enjoy the occasional escape from this dreadful existence which is reality that works of fiction offer, however pathetic tales of romance may be. Tevinter literature of course is chalked full of propaganda- all stories attempt to stomp down rebellion and endorse the benefits of succumbing to normative brainwashing, but sometimes counter-hegemonic books can be found in the more ostentatious marketplaces.”

As Dorian goes on, gesturing wildly and with passion in his voice, Haleir feels himself smirk, even just a little. His passion for books is entertaining at least.  
“As interesting as my literary opinions are- do you enjoy reading much? I could bring you some books. What kind do you like?”  
Haleir shrugs. Something to take his mind off things is actually tempting. He always did love Dalish stories of great warriors, but Tevinter books would never have a kind portrayal of his people. “I guess,” he writes “anything is fine”

He didn’t think Dorian was serious, but the next morning he does bring him a few books, all fiction and written in Common. He didn’t know if he would actually read them, but late at nights they do help him relax when he can’t sleep. It’s actually _nice_.

\---

Working as a slave isn't easy, though he supposes he's not getting the full Tevinter treatment. He rarely sees Lady Isabella, and that is likely a blessing. The woman exudes an icy atmosphere in both appearance and personality as far as he can tell. She is short, shorter than him, though he is tall for an elf. She's very slender and fair with the palest blue eyes he's ever seen. Her hair is long, down to her waist, and a very light shade of blond, though it sparkles like gold almost as if her very being were enchanted. 

She doesn't look at him when she passes through the kitchens or if he sees her in the halls. A maid girl tells him not to look at the "masters of the house". That sounds insane. Are even willing servants so degraded even their gaze is controlled by these high society mages?! If he's learned anything about Tevinter, it's that the rumors are mostly true. 

And while Dorian has all the air of a pompous high-society mage, he doesn't degrade those around him as far as Haleir can tell. His contrasting behaviour raises more questions than answers, and while it makes him suspicious, part of Haleir wants to believe he's just _better_.

Things don’t go bad until the end of the second week he’s working there. As they finish preparations for dinner, his clumsy hands knock over a bottle of the finest cooking oil he has ever seen. He watches, almost in slow motion, as the bottle contacts the floor with a horrible shattering sound, pieces of glass and the slick of oil spraying the ground.  
“Fenedhis,” Haleir mouths, only the ‘f’ and ‘s’ sounds can be produced, though no one noticed anyways and they wouldn’t understand the curse.

The crash was enough to earn the chef's attention. He’s an older man, hairy everywhere except for his head. He’s much larger than Haleir, rotund and wide at the same time.

  
“You do this on purpose, knife ears?” he barks. Haleir says nothing, but glares down at the mess, dread stirring in his stomach. “Answer me,” he yells louder.

  
Haleir’s scowls viciously, eyes nearly sharp enough to kill the man. He points to the scar across his throat.

The foreman laughs. Laughs at him. “You can’t talk? Really are the perfect salve, huh? No complaining. Though, I don’t like that look on your face,” he mocks. “Clean this up.”

  
Haleir does as he says, on his hands and knees scrubbing for some pig. It feels horrible to be in such a position, but it’s only his second week here and he can only just control himself enough for fear of messing up too much so early on. Once he finally has the floors shining again and each drop of spilled liquid is gone, he begins to get up.

As he looks up, the chef stands before him, defiantly gripping another bottle in his hands. He smiles before turning it upside down, pouring it onto the ground. He smirks at Haleir, "looks like you missed a spot.”

Haleir’s rage blinds him to the possible repercussions for his actions, as usual, and he lunges toward the foreman. The two tussle, fists flying, knees kicking into ribs, knocking both of them about the kitchen as pots and pans and food flies to the floor in the commotion. The chef took most of the damage only leaving Haleir with a few bruises, but that doesn’t seem like it will last, as the two are separated by Lady Isabella’s shrieking voice.

“What in the name of the Maker are you doing!? You savage!” she shouts, mostly directing it toward Haleir. He begins to cower, bravery suddenly stomped out by the reminder that this woman is a mage- one of the best, and he is weaponless.

Despite him being taller than her, Lady Isabella grips him by his ear to drag him out of the kitchen almost like his grandmother once did, except she tugs much harder on his sensitive ears, causing him to hiss in pain as he hunches over to follow her. Once out of the kitchen, she pushes him roughly, causing him to fall.

“The gull! You assaulted our best chef, you beast! How dare you!” Her yelling only grows louder and louder, and Haleir can only help but think this, of all moments, may be the one that kills him. He’s faced monsters and foes many times and always won, but a Tevinter woman might be the death of him.

Just as he was sure she was going to grab her staff and zap him into oblivion, he hears a voice he never thought would relieve his fears “What is going on here?!” Dorian shouts.

  
“That thing has attacked our foreman. I told you he couldn’t be trusted.”

“Up.” Dorian snaps at him “There.” he points for him to wait farther down the hall. Haleir clambers to his feet and scurries away from the kitchen. For a moment, he truly believes he’s overstepped a line and even Dorian will not help him.

“I want _it_ gone.” Lady Isabella fusses.

Dorian crosses his arms defensively “ _He_ was a gift from my father. Or are you not satisfied with what House Pavus has given you?”

“It’s a danger-”

“Then I will handle him.” Dorian cuts her off abruptly, striding toward Haleir. Once he’s close, he whispers under is breath “I hope you understand I must play along. Will you be okay if I touch you?”

Haleir can only nod frantically, real fear and confusion showing on his face. He can't help but tense when Dorian reaches out to him, but he grips his bicep lightly and pulls him out toward the grand hall and up the stairs “Come with me. I’ll teach you some manners” he says loudly, muttering afterwards “Does that sound intimidating enough?”

It takes a moment for the whole ridiculousness of the situation to sink in, but once it does Haleir starts to laugh. Soundless huffs of air come out as he can no longer keep them in. Perhaps it is inappropriate, but the pressure that has been building within him subsides a little with the small amount of amusement he allows himself.

The way Dorian looks at him is almost as though the mage is concerned until he sees the curl of Haleir’s mouth. “Now, now, don’t cry. That won’t help you,” he adds, loud enough for Lady Isabella to hear, but there is a playful smile on Dorian’s face too.

\---

Dorian brings Haleir into the library where he spends most his time. No maids or servants are allowed here, and he knows Isabella won’t follow them. He shuts the heavy wooden door behind them.

The library is one of the largest rooms in the house. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and where they don’t, large clear glass panels allow light to stream through from above. Ornate stained-glass windows adorn each wall, colored light spilling through. Yet somehow, the room never feels well lit. Draped in dark woods and old books, it carries more of a cozy atmosphere than anything- to Dorian at least. It is why he chose this home. And between his books and those left by the previous owner, the collection is overflowing.

He finally allows himself to chuckle as well, knowing they won’t be interrupted “Was my acting that bad?”

The elf nods his head honestly. Haleir’s laughter comes out as silent puffs of air through his curled lips. Dorian can only imagine what it might have sounded like before. It is good to see some light in his eyes.

With regular meals and basic necessities for the past two weeks, the boy is already looking better. His cheeks have more color to them, his body less frail, and his once disheveled hair is neatly swept back in soft locks a bit longer than Dorian’s. With a smile on his face, Dorian can’t help but notice how handsome he is. He wonders how long it has been since Haleir has laughed.

There’s a purple bruise forming across his cheek from the fight, though he looks mostly unharmed.

“I can heal you, if you wish.” Dorian offers, but Haleir shakes his head. He tries not to take it personally; even non-mages in Tevinter are squirrely about letting a stranger cast a spell on them- as they should be. “What happened?”

Haleir shoots him that look again, the one that makes Dorian feel clumsy and foolish- partially because he has been since meeting the elf. His regular charm isn’t enough to get him through this situation.

“Of course, foolish of me. I procured this for you last night,” he says, striding toward his desk. Like the rest of the room, it is made of a dark rare wood. Papers are strewn across it, some splattered with ink stains. He picks up a small scroll and quill with the feather of a young phoenix. He hands both to Haleir who watches expectantly for the last piece required to write.

“No need for ink. This is an enchanted quill. Everything you write will disappear after being read. It’s a very common method of communication in Tevinter; secrets are weapons here. Besides, it will save you paper.”

Haleir quickly begins to scroll on the parchment, holding up the paper for Dorian to see “That foreman is a bastard.”

Dorian laughs heartily, “I would agree with you. All the workers are from Lady Isabella’s house, so I don’t know them all that much. What did he do?”

“I dropped a bottle. It was my fault, and I cleaned it up, but he mocked me.” each word, scrolled in neat handwriting, dissipates as Dorian’s eyes read over them, leaving a blank paper when he’s finished.

“So you made him regret it? I’m sure he deserved it.” Haleir’s eyebrows rise in surprise, likely expecting Dorian to scold him.

  
It takes him a minute to finally write something “Why?”

“What do you mean?” Dorian asks curiously.

Haleir purses his lips for a moment before writing again “Why aren’t you like them? You say you’re helping me because it’s the right thing to do. Why? And why yell at your wife for some elf?”

“Oh, it’s simple. I hate them.” Dorian explains casually. “As pathetic as it sounds, I hate my father, and I hate the way things are here. There’s so much corruption in Tevinter; that’s not who I want to be. I hate it. And as for Isabella, I hate my wife almost as much as she hates me but not nearly as much as I hate this marriage. This is not something I agreed to do willingly. I would risk that relationship for a chicken,” Haleir scowls and Dorian is quick to notice his mistake. “-not that I would compare you to a chicken.”

“But you have slaves.” He replies.

“Well, they’re not forced to be here. It’s just their job. To be honest, I hadn’t thought much about slavery before I met you. Of course, I knew some slaves were mistreated, but the people that worked for my family were paid well and were there voluntarily. I never personally knew the cruelty some face. I don’t know exactly what happened to you, but you didn’t ask for this; you deserve better than this.”

Haleir thinks for some time before writing, and when he does, he writes slowly. “They came to my land where my people roam, and they took me from them. They traveled across oceans and tracked us for days. I fought them and they took my voice for it. They didn’t care if I survived or not. I don’t want pity. I want my life back.”

“I’m-” Dorian begins to apologize, stopping himself. No- that isn’t want he wants. “You have my word. I will do everything in my power to help you. It just may take some time before we can get you back to your clan. For that, I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. What do we do now though?” Haleir offers him a small smile, the first he has seen.

“Yes, for now we’ll have to figure out a new job for you that won’t be too inconspicuous,” Dorian looks around the library as he thinks. Books of different sizes and shapes are thrown about, some indiscernible piles litter the floor and the bookshelves themselves are filled to the brim. “I don’t suppose you understand any Tevine?” he asks curiously.

“Kaffas <\- that’s most of what I know.” He writes back.

Dorian laughs again “Very well, it shouldn’t be too much of a problem. You may find it boring, but I can have you help me organize the library. It will keep the more problematic members of the household from bothering you.”

Books will need to be thrown away, and they will have to work together on organizing the books in Tevine, but an equal portion of the library is in Common as well. Come to think of it, he has excerpts and a few books with Elvish he could use help with deciphering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some background info, Haleir is pretty open to humans in general. He despises the Chantry, but he's always had a pretty positive attitude that there are good people everywhere. So, while he doesn't trust Dorian, he's not too stubborn to think it's possible a good human could exist in Tevinter.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


	3. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me while I completely make up spells and magic stuff for this fic- Magic is magic, it doesn't realllly have rules, right? :P

Helping Dorian in the library isn’t half bad. Haleir finally gets some space from other people, and the peaceful atmosphere relaxes him. He often feels his quarters are constricting, but the large ceiling of the library and the glass panels allowing him to see the sky calm him greatly. Dorian’s presence is increasingly pleasant, surprisingly. It does take some time to get used to writing instead of speaking though. 

“If we’re going to try and get your voice back, I’ll need all the books we can find on healing,” Dorian had said nearly two hours before. The two have been going through piles and piles of books non-stop since then. Dorian taught him some Tevene words that might be in the titles to help him. A lofty pile of blood magic books is accumulating in the back corner of the library for disposal later. Haleir was surprised to hear Dorian say he’s against the use of blood magic, and even more surprised he would object so vehemently about so much as having the books around, but it’s comforting at least _if_ it’s true. 

Scanning books is beginning to get boring, especially without the ability to talk while doing it. It’s a small frustration compared to how restrictive things were before, but still. He glances across the walkway to Dorian, also deep in his search. 

“You have a lot of books on necromancy” Haleir scrolls on a paper before folding it into a better shape for throwing. He chucks it toward Dorian, the paper hitting him in the back. 

“What are you-” Dorian laughs before unfolding the projectile to read it. “Ah, yes. That isn’t a popular thing in the South, is it? It isn’t so taboo here. We just borrow the dead momentarily. It’s not like the city of the dead.” He throws the paper back so the two can continue conversing back and forth. “Besides, what do the dead need bodies or spirits for?” 

Haleir ponders this for a moment as curiosity sparks in his mind, “What kinds of things can you do?” 

“Well, some of it simply strikes fear into one’s opponent. More powerful spells may make fallen opponents fight alongside me for a limited amount of time.” 

Haleir pauses before smirking “Sounds cool.” It’s morbid and a bit unorthodox, but such things always did fascinate him. 

Dorian seems pleased by that, smiling widely. “Of course, everything I do is _cool_.” 

Halier makes a sarcastic “pft” sound in response. He does have a charming smile, Haleir thinks. He still doesn’t trust him fully, but he figures why not enjoy his company. It is either that or isolate himself. And after months of isolation, he doesn’t think he can handle that anymore. 

Dorian’s promise of healing seems awfully lofty. There are many skilled healers knowledgeable in ancient ways of magic in the Dalish clans, but he had never seen something like this be restored so long after the incident. He thinks back to his time in the clan and the kind of magic they used there. He didn’t have a lot of friends, but his closest is a mage. She never cast anything more than topical healing spells on him, though. Eventually, he writes “What kind of spell did you use on me?”, throwing the paper to Dorian again. 

The mage thinks for a moment before he responds. “Oh, in the stables? I nearly forgot- that’s just a healing spell. It can be used to calm one’s senses momentarily, that’s all.” 

Haleir nods thoughtfully. It wasn’t mind control. Good to know. He continues to skim books until he finds a green book with golden letters spelling out a word similar to what Dorian taught him. He brings it to the mage, pointing at the word curiously, as if to say ‘is this one?’. 

“Ah, perfect. Thank you,” Dorian says. He flips through the book until he reaches a page with grotesque drawings of scars and gashes. The mage’s eyes skim the page, then go back to read again. Haleir watches as he silently mouths the words to a spell over and over as if he were practicing. “Um,” he mutters awkwardly. 

Haleir raises an eyebrow at him. 

“It says I need to access the damage before deciding how to treat it. There’s a spell here-” 

“?” Haleir writes when Dorian doesn’t reply for some time. 

“Can I touch it? Your scar, that is.” Dorian asks hesitantly. “There’s a spell here that healers use to learn how much damage someone has sustained. I will have to use it, but it won’t affect you.” 

Somehow the fact he asked does something funny to Haleir. It makes him feel respected, or even cared for that the mage would be so concerned about making him uncomfortable- or perhaps he’s imagining things and Dorian is the one uncomfortable with touching an elf. Either way, the last even semi-kind touch he has experienced was weeks ago when Dorian pretended to drag him away from the kitchen. Haleir nods his head. 

Dorian approaches him slowly, coming closer than the two had really ever been, even working beside one another. “Tilt your head up for me,” he mutters. 

Dorian is taller than him. With his head tilted up, he can see the light reflect in Dorian’s steely grey eyes just right. They’re gentle- gentler than any other Tevinter’s he’d seen. Lined lightly with charcoal, it makes them pop even more. Dorian’s hand comes to rest on Haleir’s throat. His thumb gently trails across the scar. He stiffens at the contact instinctively, especially considering the sensitive place of it. 

“Does it hurt?” Dorian asks, concerned. 

Haleir quickly shakes his head, hoping he doesn’t notice the horrible blush he can feel spreading. The mage continues. One hand is on his staff and the other comes to softly cover as much of Haleir’s throat as he can. He can hear Dorian whisper something, then there is a slight glowing under his hand. Dorian winces, but doesn’t say anything for some time, his eyes tightly closed. Haleir notices a slight tremor in Dorian’s hand. When he finally removes his hand from Haleir, he can’t help but feel sad at the loss. 

There’s a hint of sadness in Dorian’s eyes as he seems to slowly rake over Haleir’s features. He smiles weakly when their eyes lock once more. “It worked. That should help for now. Thank you.” 

+++++++++++ 

Muffled noises sound in the distant background- barbaric men shouting with drunken tongues, the crackle of a bonfire, and the hushed fearful whispers of prisoners. 

It all happens through hazy flashes of images. Nothing is clear, but he can hear, smell, and feel small sensations. He feels only an ounce of the fear and anger coursing through the elf. He can feel the dirt under him as slavers pull his shouting form from the cages and the way the metal cuffs dig into his wrists. He can faintly hear threats of destruction and pain come from the elf, and the resounding laughter from his captors. The next thing he sees is the out-pour of blood, and he feels the terror of eminent death wash over the boy as the tinny metal smell invades his senses and a distinctly wet feeling covers his chest. 

+++++++++++ 

Suddenly the damage becomes clear in Dorian’s mind; he knows exactly what needs healing, the precise spots to target and how they need to be handled. 

But it wasn’t the answer Dorian was hoping for. Had he found Haleir much earlier, he could have helped him, but the spell only revealed that traditional healing spells won’t solve anything. Important information, but that left him with even more questions. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Haleir that, yet anyways. 

The images he saw, though only small snippets of the incident, haunt him. He knew the spell would show him the damage, but he hadn’t expected it to be through a first-person view. His heart aches more for Haleir than it already had; he can’t imagine what kinds of horrors must keep him up at night. 

A few more days of scouring the library together and he has grown desperate. He knows of only one mage that might be willing to help and has the knowledge he needs. They had parted ways long ago, but his first love was deeply influential in his development as a mage. _He_ was the one who opened his eyes to the evils of blood magic. They were young then, and foolish. It has been many years since they last met, both pursuing their own lives- at least _he_ had left to pursue his own life. It was this relationship that caused Dorian to want to leave the traditional life of the Imperium and forge his own path. That has really worked out well, hasn’t it? 

He scrawls out the letter what feels like a million times. Each time he finishes, he hates it more than the last. He will have to go into town to get more parchment by the end of it. Late into the night, he has a draft that he doesn’t hate too much. He’ll have to send it in the morning, but hopefully he will receive word back quickly. 

His eyes feel heavy and his head aches from the long hours he has been putting in at the library. It doesn’t help with all the stress as of lately. It’s been hard balancing his ‘new life’ and trying to help Haleir. He tries to avoid Lady Isabella as much as possible. He only slips into the guest chambers late at night and sneaks out early before she’s awoken, so she won’t catch him and question why he refuses to sleep in the same bed as her. 

Dorian yawns as he gets up, preparing to leave the library, when he notices Haleir fast asleep against one of the bookshelves. 

“Ah, I’m so sorry to have kept you up,” He mutters, but the elf doesn’t stir. He didn’t have to stay up with Dorian, foolish boy. Dorian removes the cloak from his shoulders to lay it over Haleir like a blanket. He’d rather not wake him, though some instinct buried deep within him would like to carry him to his quarters. He’s been careful not to touch him at all without permission; that would truly be a foolish way to break that boundary. 

Dorian sighs. He shouldn’t be getting too attached. If things go according to plan, Haleir will be headed back to his family before the end of the year. Besides, they’re probably just bonding out of isolation from others. Dorian has no one and no freedom to find anyone. When he leaves home, he’s likely tracked by his father’s men. He has no friends and no way to make more or get out of the city without being stopped. Haleir, on the other hand, has not been treated kindly in months. In a different situation, he probably would hate Dorian just as much as the slavers. Right? 

\--- 

When Haleir wakes up, eyes still shut, he finds himself wrapped in a heavy blanket of silk, drowned in a familiar scent- it's oddly comforting and feels almost safe. Safe. That isn’t a feeling he’s had often for some time. He nuzzles into the cloth and allows himself breathe slowly, taking in the emotion. _Safety_. 

Wait- where is he? 

Haleir jolts up as his eyes fling open, startled at the realization he is not in his quarters. It takes him a second to process, but he’s greeted with bright rays of sunlight streaming through the library windows. He looks down at the blanket gathered around his waist. White silk with some sort of gold chain. He lifts it up only to recognize the cloak Dorian had been wearing the day before was draped over him, likely left by the Altus himself. 

_That_ is what he had smelled? 

Even without anyone present to see, he can feel his face heating up in embarrassment at the thought. He tries to ignore it, find some other thoughts to fill his mind. He gets up with a groan and sets out to find Dorian. How did he even end up falling asleep in here anyways? 

When he approaches Dorian’s desk, he notices a small note lying on top of the clutter. “ _Gone to the market today. Take the day off if you’d like. -D”_

Haleir smiles. It was nice of Dorian to think about him- not that it matters... right? 

He decides he should write back, though, leave something for Dorian to find once he returns. Haleir walks around the large wooden desk, admiring the patterns etched into the sides. The plush chair set behind it must be wyvren leather, a lovely shade of crimson. When he sits down, he feels like he sinks into it. As Haleir reaches for a quill so he may scrawl a response, he knocks a few papers onto the floor. 

Fenedhis. He quickly scoops them up, attempting to place them on the table exactly how they were. A few have crude drawings and Tevene scribbles- magic theory, he guesses. But one is a letter. Was this the letter Dorian was writing the night before? It’s in common. 

His eyes skim over the paper as he considers his options. He would say he wasn’t snooping, but that simply wouldn’t be true. It’s better to read it to be careful. If Dorian is to be trusted, the letter won’t have anything he shouldn’t know. After all, he shouldn’t get too comfortable, he tells himself. 

~ 

_“I’m sure you think of my actions as pathetic, but know I did what I had to_ _; father is not against using_ _blood_ _magic to_ _make me_ _do as he pleases. Besides, if I choose to live my life as a miserable lie, that is my business, isn’t it?_

_“Regardless, I didn’t write you looking for sympathy. I require your help with more complicated matters. I have come across a poor man who has had his vocal cords mangled by thugs. They aren’t removed, simply cut. He lacks the ability to use them at all. I’m afraid I’m a poor healer, but my understandings of such magic are that the targeted body part need be unhealed. Unfortunately, it seems his have healed severed. I have scoured the library_ _(mine and others’)_ _for some time now and know not how to help this man. I feel I must, for what has happened to him was treacherous. I care for him, and his suffering is only prolonged by my house._

_“_ **_Please_ ** _, I don’t know who else to turn to._ _”_

_-Dorian_ _Pavus_

_~_

Suddenly it dawns on him how much work, and care, Dorian has put into helping him. Haleir has been here a month, and Dorian has been nothing but accommodating. Sure, his kindness is often expressed behind humor and self-confident remarks rather than outright nurturing, but Haleir assumes that is just the way it is in the Tevinter Imperium. And his small acts of respect have not been lost on him: giving Haleir as much space as he needs, only touching him with permission, never prying for personal information, but still encouraging him to feel comfortable ‘speaking’ openly. 

He feels a fool for his harshness with Dorian. How easy would it have been to ignore him or throw him back to the slavers? Just, after what happened, he felt like he couldn’t trust any human. How many had they passed in Ferelden? Caged in carts, they were brought to Tevinter. Those they passed scowled or turned a blind eye, but none stopped to help them. They weren’t willing to risk anything, but Dorian genuinely seems like he is. He _cares_... 

He stares at the letter for some time, reads it again, questions how he’s interpreting it and reads again. He tries not to pry into the more personal details of Dorian’s life that are exposed and rather focuses on what is said about him. There may not be much hope for his voice, but his heart focuses more on the realization of the true ally he has in Dorian, and something warm blossoms there- something hopeful. 

\---- 

When Dorian returns, he has new books, a lot more parchment, and what seems like an endless collection of runes and stones. His trip to town went well. He got more supplies they might need, and for other projects he had been working on before he met Haleir. Partially, he ventured out on his own as a test. As he suspected, he noticed the not so subtle presence of who he can only assume are his father’s men watching him. Carefully, they trailed him from a distance throughout the city. He darted though alleyways and busy markets to lose them, but even then he spotted one near his home- likely ensuring he returned. 

Dorian sighs at the thought. It’s an interesting thing being bound to the city without explicitly being told he isn’t to leave. It hurts, truly. He had spent so much of his life considering his father a good man- to be treated like a criminal simply for who he is- 

He sits in the library, flipping through one of his new books. Haleir looks through the supplies he brought back curiously, one rune in particular catching his eye. Hesitantly, he reaches out to touch it. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Dorian says, glancing over his book. Haleir shoots him a skeptical look, hand still hovering. “These stones, if handled improperly, will hurt you. That one in particular is likely to electrocute you. Though, I suppose you’re free to try if you like.” 

Haleir grins as he rolls his eyes at Dorian, retracting his hand. He seems a bit restless since Dorian returned. His day off must not have been entertaining enough. 

“I have to send a letter. Would you like to come with me?” 

Haleir quickly scribbles on his parchment “Anything! Anywhere!” 

Dorian chuckles “Ah, getting a little stir crazy, are we? Come, there is a bird pin in the back of the gardens. It’s a nice walk this time of day.” 

The elf cheers up visibly at the thought. His posture straightens and he grins. Dorian doesn’t know much about the Dalish aside from little tidbits of what Haleir has told him, but he knows that roaming in nature is central to their lifestyle. Perhaps some time outside will do him good. 

Haleir is already at the library doors, nearly humming with energy as Dorian grabs his satchel from his desk. He hears Haleir’s foot tapping impatiently “Alright, alright! I’m coming,” he laughs. He tries not to let his thoughts linger too much, but it is good to have someone to laugh with. Odd, really, how the boy who almost killed him with a butter knife last week has become something closer to a friend despite their circumstance. 

\-- 

A few of the other workers are in the halls as they navigate the large mansion to enter the gardens. Some give him odd looks and some just stare; Haleir feels like some sort of spectacle to them. Have they really never seen a Dalish elf before, he wonders, or is it something else? 

It’s late afternoon and the sun is setting, giving the sky a delightful pink tinge over the large manicured garden. Trees, bushes, and flowers of all kind line the paths, carefully trimmed and sculpted into unnatural shapes, pruned perfectly in ways one would not see in the wild. Still, he finds it beautiful. There is some humor to it, though, that the wealthy spend so much time and money on building gardens only to ensure that the plants within it do not resemble their natural selves at all. Much like Tevinter, he supposes. 

The “mail room” as Dorian calls it, is a large coop with dozens of birds. Here, they send and receive carrier birds with messages. They have a few types of birds. The small white ones as bright as sunlight chirp the most when they approach. Different varieties of large ravens eye them cautiously. He finds himself enamored by them, something about the white ones reminding him of Halla at home. 

He doesn’t even notice the easy smile that crosses his face until Dorian turns back, grinning widely when he sees the happiness in Haleir’s eyes. 

“The ravens go farther, but they can be stubborn fellows,” he explains to Haleir. “We have a variety of birds for different locations as well. The doves wouldn’t make it in the cold South, and in some regions a foreign looking bird will be shot down.” 

He watches curiously as Dorian seems to consider which bird to pick. He seems to notice Haleir’s eyes on a dove and reaches for it. “Would you like to hold one? They’re quite tame.” 

He nods his head enthusiastically, eyes lighting up brightly at the prospect. 

“Have you ever done this before?” 

He’s hesitant to admit it, but he shakes his head, almost expecting Dorian to scoff at him or say it’s a bad idea. Instead, he gives Haleir a reassuring smile. “That’s alright, just hold up your hand,” Dorian repositions his fingers before holding up the bird to Haleir . He watches as the bird hops onto his finger without hesitation. They’re so trusting. Whoever takes care of them must be good to them- and Dorian is for that matter. 

“There you go,” he says, gently running a hand over the bird “You can pet her. They’re very friendly.” 

Dorian chooses a raven to attach his letter to. Haleir watches, delicately caressing the bird in front of him. The soft feathers feel like velvet under his fingers, and as enamoring as the creature is, he finds his gaze returning to Dorian. There’s something the way he looks when he’s focused that captures Haleir’s eyes- the spark in his eyes, a slight crease in his eyebrows, the way his lips curl slightly as he praises the bird once he’s finished. 

Haleir knows he doesn’t need to be here. He’s not helping in any way; it’s clear Dorian just wanted him to enjoy something new. He really cares... He feels a rush of heat come over him for what must be the third time today. Makers, he shouldn’t be reading into it too much. And he definitely doesn’t need to be ogling his only friend here. 

And yet, when Dorian releases the bird into the sky, Haleir can’t focus on anything else but the man standing in front of him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like someones catching feelings... If anyone is concerned about possible power imbalances, nothing is going to happen until it can be 100% clear it's Haleir's choice, so no worries! :)
> 
> Thank you for reading! And thank you to everyone that left kudos or comments <3


	4. Something Dangerous

Dorian finds himself taking his meals in his library or isolated corners of the mansion more than before. More so, he finds himself sharing mealtimes with Haleir. While he tries to give the elf his space, he always leaves an open invitation. At first, he never joined him unless they were working on something in the library together. Lately though… It may be Dorian’s imagination, but he notices Haleir lingering closer than before. Choosing to sit next to him instead of leaving a chair between them; spending more time together; discussing personal matters more openly; even venturing around the mansion on his own more- each minute change speaks wonders to the growth of Haleir’s trust in Dorian.

On this particular afternoon, they decided to take their research outside- Dorian’s research anyways. Haleir spent the better part of the day roaming in the gardens or reading, keeping Dorian company. It was he who insisted they go outside more. He says Dorian needs more breaks, but he suspects it’s better for both of them.

They decided to stay and have dinner in the gazebo farthest from the house, hopefully out of Lady Isabella’s sight. Her looming glares have gotten worse, and his anxieties over being seen around Haleir too often are only growing.

As he thinks, Dorian pushes the remaining food around his plate idly. He doesn’t register the huff of impatience Haleir gives him, but he does notice when the elf uses his fork to snag the rest of Dorian’s steak off his plate, having finished his quite some time before.

“Hey!” he complains, though there’s a smile on his face “What if I wanted to eat that?”

Haleir rolls his eyes, knowing full well Dorian can access more food at any time, and Haleir’s appetite certainly seems to outdo his own. He pushes his parchment toward Dorian as he enjoys his stolen meal.

“What’s on your mind?”. He adds to the paper “Wrote that 10 minutes ago”

“You’re exaggerating”

In truth, he was thinking about his impending doom, but that’s not something he wants to discuss. However, there were other maters he had been intending to address.

“I meant to tell you earlier, I got you something when I was in town.” Dorian says, pulling a set of sheathed daggers out of his bag. “I wasn’t sure if you would like them, but I remember you said you had a set of daggers before...”

Haleir had shared several stories of his time with his clan, particularly of the adventures he had. He was trained to duel wield daggers, and while the Lavellen clan isn’t particularly violent, he does seem to have a certain pride for his skills and that of the weapons crafters in his clan. Perhaps it’s an odd gift, but considering the incident with the chef, it would make Dorian more comfortable to know Haleir could defend himself if need be.

Haleir looks at them curiously, slowly pulling one out of the plain leather sheath. His eyes go wide as he takes them in; gorgeous blue inlays line the dagger, Dalish markings covering them. His reaction is certainly that of surprise, but whether it’s good or bad, Dorian can’t tell.

“I know it may not be from your clan, I just thought you ought to have some form of self-defense, and it’s better for another elf to have it than a spoiled Tevinter brat.” Dorian explains, nerves bubbling in his stomach.

But Haleir doesn’t react, still scanning the design until Dorian notices his eyes well with tears, and his nerves quickly turn to a sick sinking feeling in his gut.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to-”

Haleir begins writing before he can finish. “Dorian! These are MY daggers!!!”

“By the Maker, really?” Dorian asks, nearly unbelieving.

He grabs Dorian’s arm almost like a hug and squeezes gently, smiling at him. There are still hints of tears in his eyes, but it is clear now that they aren’t tears of pain. Dorian is shocked, but he smiles back and places one hand on top of his hesitantly, taking in the warmth both of Haleir’s touch and the feeling in his heart.

“Thank you” Haleir mouths. He keeps his hand on Dorian and uses his other to examine the knives further. The grin on his face lights up his eyes like a child receiving a long-coveted gift.

They stay like that for some time before he takes the parchment and excitedly begins to write more. “They took these from me when I was captured. I never thought I would see them again. Our keeper gave these to me years ago. They’re very special- thank you.”

“Those men who took you must have sold them to the market. I thought they weren’t in town anymore, but…” Dorian’s mind begins to wander- what that could mean… he’ll admit he had considered it would be fair to exact revenge on those that hurt Haleir. And if anything, it would protect others like him- but they can cross that bridge when they come to it. “Tell me about life in your clan,” he smiles, attempting to change the direction of the conversation.

\---------------

It’s been a long week- the spell he used to investigate Haleir’s wounds took a lot out of him physically and mentally. And everything has been a bit of an emotional whirlwind. But it’s odd; Dorian finds himself smiling as he walks toward his chambers to retire for the night. It’s not that he’d wish Haleir’s misfortune on anyone, and he’d rather not be in his particular situation either, but finding each other has been… comforting. He finds himself thankful for the friend he’s found in this mess.

He turns the corner of the last hallway before approaching the guest chambers he’s made his own before he sees her. Lady Isabella waits expectantly outside the doorway looking more irritated than usual.

By Tevinter standards, she’s not unusually unpleasant, but she does little to hide her disenchantment with Dorian, and everyone else for that matter. He often finds her fussing at servants or scowling as she reads. She hates everything in this house, but unlike Dorian, she doesn’t seem as content to simply ignore one another.

“About time,” she barks impatiently. He can already tell this will be a fun conversation.

Dorian does his best to put on a pleasant air “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. Is there something I can do for you?”

She puts her hands on her hips defiantly, looking at him as if he should already know her answer “You could act like my husband for one day of your life instead of hiding in the guest chambers like a _coward_.”

“And how exactly do you propose I do that?”

“Show some interest, for one,” she glares.

The idea is almost preposterous, considering how stand-offish she’s been since they’ve met. He almost laughs at the notion “You don’t expect me to love you, do you? That isn’t how Tevinter works.” Dorian scoffs.

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Of course not, you fool! I expect you to be my husband. Even the most loveless souls don’t object to what we were brought together for.”

Dorian throws up his hands in exasperation. “And what is that? Throwing parties? Socializing with backstabbing scum we hate more than each other?” He admits he feels a little bad for being so harsh with the woman, but in truth, he’s mostly hoping she will despise him enough to let him be.

It seems to be working, as she gazes at him like he is the stupidest person she has met. “Babies! Sex! Am I so revolting to you that you would rather stain my name as inadequate to carry your family heritage than close your eyes and just get it over with?”

The one topic he’s been dreading most- it throws him off, and he finds himself quickly flustered. He didn’t think she actually wanted to do that with him. And he- shouldn’t she have realized already? But if she finds out…

“I- no. I- I don’t have time for this right now,” he stutters. Dorian decides it would be best to retreat, quickly heading back the way he came. “I have work to do. Don’t disturb me.”

“I won’t keep giving you chances.” She says coldly.

He can hear her sigh irritably in the distance, but she doesn’t stop him, and he’s far too focused on the panic growing within him. He just needs to get as far away from here as possible.

_You’re delusional. Your mind is just being manipulated. Play time is over, come back to your duties. Would you waste everything so easily? Revolting._

His father’s voice rings through his mind- those words from that fateful night he found out. He was calm yet disbelieving at first, but the longer Dorian resisted his father, the angrier and louder he became. His mother cried and refused to talk to him. It was the first time he realized they truly wouldn’t love him no matter what- perhaps they never had, only loving the _idea_ of what they wanted him to be. The thought of going through that again in such a more public manor with Lady Isabella… She would blackmail him, use it to ruin his family name. Then, his father really wouldn’t give him any other choices. He would be lucky if he didn’t become his own sacrifice for the blood magic his father had planned.

Dorian finds himself in his library, his safe space. He finds a nearby bookshelf to sit on the floor and lean against. He pulls his knees up to his chest like a child and lets himself just _feel_ for a moment.

“Maker, what have I done?” he says to himself, burying his face in his hands.

He can’t do what they’re asking of him. He is running out of options and now if he fails, he suspects he will not be the only one to be hurt for it. _Haleir_. The poor boy would probably be dragged into it somehow, no matter how baseless the accusations are. The thought makes his heart hurt more.

A single tear trails down his face despite his best efforts to keep it in.

He feels the soft brush of fingers on his shoulder that make him jolt in surprise, almost afraid of who it may be. In his shock, he subconsciously casts a small defense spell, almost like magic seeping out of the cracks in his emotions. A burst of heat, the lightest tingle of fire, escapes, singeing the fingertips of the one touching him.

Haleir retracts his hand quickly, gasping quietly from the pain.

Dorian, upon realizing it was the elf he hurt, begins to babble “I’m so sorry! You scared me. I didn’t mean to-”. Why does he always have to mess things up?

But Haleir doesn’t run or back away. He looks understanding, and Dorian wonders if he knows what happened.

“May I?” Dorian holds out his hand. Haleir lays his damaged hand in Dorian’s, fingertips facing up. Dorian places his other hand on top, casting a light healing spell to fix what he had done. It takes a moment to fully heal, and his gaze wanders to take in Haleir’s features. Perhaps he imagined it, but it seemed they linger, hands touching even after the spell is completed.

Haleir smiles gently, mouthing the words “thank you”. He reaches out to brush the tear from Dorian’s face.

“I-” Dorian begins, but he doesn’t really know where he intended to go with it.

It doesn’t matter. Haleir sits next to him just close enough he can feel the heat radiating from his body. It’s comforting. He pulls out his paper and quill to write “Are you okay?”

Dorian sighs “Yes, I’m fine. Just regretting-”, he pauses. What exactly does he regret? “Being me…”

He lets the words sit in the air for some time as if they had a physical weight to them or took up space in the room. Finally, he glances back to Haleir. The elf’s vivid blue eyes stare at him softly, but Dorian doesn’t miss the hint of worry shown where his eyebrows knit together.

“I guess I never rightfully told you the whole story or about the marriage practices of Tevinters, though unfortunately I’m sure you got some hints from my father.”

Haleir rolls his eyes at the mention of Dorian’s father, then writes “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I’m here either way.”

That does something funny in Dorian’s chest; he can almost physically feel the emotions twisting and gnawing at him. It makes him sad and happy all at the same time. “I trust you.” he says slowly.

Haleir smiles reassuringly for him to continue.

“In Tevinter, powerful mages do not get to choose their mates. It’s all selective breeding and miserable fake marriages so that the best of the best can make other best mage babies they don’t want nor love. It's all political. I would have disagreed to this arrangement no matter what, but you see- some years ago my father discovered I-” Dorian searches for the words “-prefer the company of men. I tried to leave, and actually studied under a different magister for some time, but Father left me with no options. I agreed to marry Lady Isabella because I learned he was preparing for a blood magic ritual to _change me_.” his voice cracks at the utterance, the thing that hurts the most. “I don’t know if it would have worked, but I couldn’t risk that nor the lives he would take to do it.”

Dorian sighs. He hasn’t told anyone that story before- not in full. Each word hurts more than the last and tears pool in his eyes again- not for his situation but more for the loss he feels between his father and himself.

Haleir places his hand on Dorian’s forearm gently pulling him back to the present.

“You must think me a fool to say such a thing. I put myself in this situation, after all. I just don’t think I can do this my whole life. Or at all- Lady Isabella...”

“You shouldn’t have to. You didn’t ask for this. You deserve to be accepted for who you are,” Haleir scrolls quickly. “and I think you’re brave,” he adds.

“I just don’t know what to do. Lady Isabella is getting… suspicious.” Dorian admits, though, he had already considered everything he could by now.

“Leave!” Haleir writes. If only it were that simple.

Maybe if he hadn’t burned bridges with Alexius he would have somewhere to go, but that has not been a possibility for some time. “To where? I am a Tevinter Mage. I cannot go to the South; I would be an apostate or worse yet a circle mage- if that even lasts with the tension between the Templars these days.”

Haleir gives Dorian a dejected frown, almost pouting. His bottom lip sticks out a bit and his ears tilt down slightly as he thinks. Dorian finds himself thinking it’s cute. He probably isn’t used to thinking about the treatment of mages nor the political affairs of humans.

“Humans in the South aren’t so accepting to mages like the Dalish. Besides, my father’s men are still tracking me.”

“Then join me- seek asylum with my clan,” he shrugs when he finishes writing. He knows how foolish it sounds, it seems. But the thought is endearing.

Dorian chuckles “Haleir, don’t be ridiculous. I know the Lavellen clan trades with humans, but that doesn’t mean they would accept a Tevinter mage like me.”

Haleir looks upset by his resignation “Maybe not. but you’re my friend. We have to try something!”

Dorian feels a rush of heat spread across his cheeks. He wonders if Haleir can see him blush in the candlelight. _His friend?_ It has been so long since anyone has called him a friend, and perhaps he has never had a true one. Alexius may have been once, but how could he know?

“If we leave and they follow us, it won’t just be me who gets hurt; they’ll take you too. They might think-” he doesn’t want to even say it, but he knows what his father would assume about them. “I’m not going to risk your life.”

Haleir scowls, not at Dorian but at the situation. He can see the frustration in his eyes, and somehow that makes him feel better- that someone cares about his feelings too.

Dorian sighs, closing his eyes as he leans his head back against the bookshelf behind him. A few seconds pass and he feels the tickle of hair brush against him as Haleir leans his head on Dorian’s shoulder. The mage freezes up for a moment. He wants to distrust this kindness or try not to get too attached- maker knows their situation is so fragile, but some part of him wants this intimacy so desperately even if it can only be friendship. He resigns to listen to his heart over mind, just this once, and leans into the other man’s touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for the kind comments and kudos <3


	5. Bad News

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is super short; I was going to pair it with another one, but I ended up reshuffling the order of events. I just find this story easier to write in small chunks and instead of waiting forever to post. I like getting scenes out there once their done (enough). However, the next chapter is pretty much done and longer than this, so hopefully I'll be posting that in the next day or two.

He receives the letter at the end of the week, only a few days after Dorian’s run in with Lady Isabella. The rolled-up parchment sealed with black wax sits on his desk until late into the night when everyone is asleep but Dorian. He should have torn it open the second they got to the library, but he couldn’t seem to will himself to open it quite yet, both fearful of its contents and the memories it might dredge up. At any rate, it doesn’t seem to be Dorian’s week. 

~ 

“ _Dorian,_

_I must admit I greatly regretted hearing of your fate. I won’t push the matter, but I do hope you can find happiness in spite of it all. I also regret to tell you I know only of one solution to your friend’s problem, but it simply isn’t feasible. An injury like that can only be healed by the blood of another, but it isn’t simple blood magic. Hundreds have tried the spell and failed- the blood must be given willingly with a_ **_deep_ ** _passion, and it will bind the donor and receiver forever._

_If he dies, you die._

_The spell itself is a great risk. If the proper criteria aren’t filled, it could backfire leaving you with the same injury or worse._

_I only tell you this because I feel it would be unjust to lie. But please, don’t pursue this. You may care for him, but it isn’t worth it._

_I hope you haven’t gone and got yourself in over your head again._

_-Rilineus_

_~_

It isn’t good news, and worse is the implication that Dorian can’t- _shouldn’t_ be able to fill the criteria of the spell. How deep a passion must be required to bind two lives permanently so that if one dies the other will too? It isn’t a binding Dorian is familiar with; those used by Tevinter mages are more often one-sided, to take control over another being. This is one of true love... 

_Venhedis_

It’s not something to take lightly. 

There _has_ to be another way. 

And Dorian throws himself into finding exactly that. Late at night, he comes to the library alone to dig through the books he threw aside, cursing as evil. Blood magic. He won’t hurt anyone else for this, but if there’s one blood magic spell which he could give his blood to help another, perhaps there are others. He feels like a madman after a few days of it, but to give up... it would feel like sitting on his hands. They will still need to find a way to leave Tevinter unapprehended. Time may help that, granted that they can keep a low enough profile not to warrant the attention of Lady Isabella or Dorian’s father... 

He spent so much of his life resisting the corruption of Tevinter. Growing up, Dorian had few friends, and none would really be true till the end. But those he did find company with were likeminded in that to some point. Lately, he’s been reminiscing about his days studying under the supervision of Alexius. When his father’s home was no longer shelter to him, Alexius took him in. They spent hours discussing the change they wished to bring to Tevinter. And yet, here Dorian is- a real literal chance to make a change for just one person, and he can’t seem to do right by him. And how much worse his heart has grown so fond of Haleir in the process... 

\--   
Dorian has been aloof at times recently and looking more and more worn out than before. Sometimes he’s his regular self, but then Haleir catches him zoning out, and only a glimpse of his real emotions show in his eyes, but it’s enough. Haleir can’t blame him; his situation isn’t ideal. Neither say it, but they know soon Dorian will have to make a choice regarding exactly how far he’s willing to take the charade of his fake marriage. 

The mage’s displeasure regarding his marriage was apparent from the beginning, but learning the full reason behind it... it makes him sick to imagine a father would do such a thing to his only son- and a son that seemed to look up to him at one point. 

His heart aches for Dorian, maybe more than it should. 

Haleir stares up at the stone ceiling above his bed as a single candle light flickers against the bumpy texture. 

_Makers_. He shouldn’t be thinking so much about him at a time like this. 

But he can’t sleep, plagued by nightmares. He keeps remembering the first time- trying to scream and finding no sound could be produced as searing pain sparked across his throat. 

He shutters, rolling onto his side. 

His thoughts drift back to the mage, that irksome mage. How did this even happen? He’s been sold as property, but he doesn’t feel like a slave at all. It’s a relief, but odd. He doesn’t quite understand how Dorian ended up so different from the others here, but he’s starting to see more now. 

Is it wrong his confession was comforting in a way- or at least part of it was a relief to hear. 

Haleir sighs abruptly. Tired of being tired and unable to sleep, he decides he’d rather stretch his legs than waste time on his worries. He’s grown quite fond of exploring the mansion late at nights. With empty hallways only lit by moonlight, he feels at ease. Elves can see in the dark in ways humans cannot; it gives him an extra sense of peace knowing he would see anyone coming far before they could spot him. It’s not that he shouldn’t be wondering around at this time; he just finds it better if he avoids others. 

Haleir slips through one hallway after another, up a spiral staircase, takes a shortcut through a storage closet, and finally turns the corner to his favorite hideout when he’s surprised to see Dorian curled up in the window seat. In silk pajamas with tousled hair and, surprisingly, no charcoal lining his eyes, he looks... vulnerable. There’s an expression on his face Haleir doesn’t see often- a combination of concentration and concern. In one hand he holds a book, the other produces a flame to read it. 

He takes a moment to stare, knowing he won’t be seen. He lets his eyes roam over the other man, take in each little detail: the fire illuminating his grey eyes, the way his hair looks unstyled and brushed to the side, how his lips move silently as if he were practicing saying the spells he reads about. It all sends a fluttering sensation to Haleir’s chest. 

He decides to interrupt, stepping out of the shadows, making an effort to make his footsteps louder to get Dorian’s attention. 

“Andraste’s tits!” Dorian yelps, the book flying to the ground and fire going out in his panic. “You bloody bastard, you nearly scared me to death.” he murmurs, holding his hand to his chest as he catches his breath. It’s funny, really, being sworn at with such a warm smile on his lips. 

Haleir laughs silently. It wasn’t his intention to scare him, but the result was entertaining. It’s moments like these he wishes he could speak, for convenience if not for the basic principle of it. He reaches into his satchel to retrieve his paper and quill. As he does, he glances down, the cover of the book catches eye, redirecting his attention. _Maleficar_. He knows enough Tevene to know what that is. The books make themselves obvious, often built in the same materials, black leather, iridescent metals, red- there's always red for drama. 

He looks back up to Dorian as the mage re-casts his fire spell, illuminating the space between them. Haleir eyes him, a mixture of confusion and distrust in his eyes. He can’t help the tinge of fear that he feels in the back of his mind. He should trust Dorian. He knows Dorian. And Dorian has been kind to him. But what if his initial suspicions were true? He doesn’t want to believe that. He’s frozen in place, a million questions whirling through his mind silently, waiting for an answer. 

Dorian looks at him curiously- Haleir's nervousness doesn’t get past him, it seems. He raises an eyebrow before his eyes drop to the book at Haleir’s feet, and something like a mix of horror and regret hit him. He must know how bad it seems, especially after their lengthy conversations about the inherent wrongness of blood magic in Tevinter. 

“It’s not what you think,” Dorian says, raising his hand as he says it. 

Haleir steps back defensively, but he doesn’t run. He wants to give him a chance, even if he knows it’s stupid. 

“I was just studying,” Dorian says clumsily, panic clear in his eyes. He sighs, realizing how poorly he is articulating the situation. “Maker, I know it looks bad, but I got a response from my contact. He said blood magic was the only option powerful enough, but the spell he had heard of is… it’s too risky for us both. I thought I may find another option.” 

He grimaces. He trusts him, but not the idea. He walks quickly to the bench, yanking Dorian down next to him by his wrist “You said those books should be destroyed. How is blood magic supposed to help me?” 

“If it’s my blood, what does it matter?” 

Haleir doesn’t respond yet, perplexed by Dorian’s words. He’s already given so much to help him, to use his own blood... It would be painful and potentially dangerous. 

“Did you think I would- ” Haleir can see the pain in Doian’s eyes, sadness and disappointment, but it seems he’s resigned to it. “I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you.” He says so quietly even the elf could barely hear. 

“I trust you” Haleir writes quickly. He takes Dorian’s hand in his the way one would shake hands, but instead he just holds it as reassuringly as he can. “I just don’t know what to think.” he adds with his free hand. 

“You have every right to be wary.” Dorian says, staring down at their hands. “I understand if you have doubts.” 

“No. You’re my friend.” 

Dorian smiles, but there’s no warmth in it “In Tevinter, friendship means nothing.” 

Haleir scrunches his nose. “Not to Dalish, and not to me.” _You’re something to me_ , he thinks but dares not write it. 

“And neither to me,” he caresses Haleir’s hand with his thumb in little motions, seemingly unconsciously. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. If I’m being perfectly honest, I didn’t want to discourage you any further. And I didn’t want to concern you with all this unless I was sure it was the only way.” 

"Thank you, but you know you can be honest with me.” 

“No, I suppose you’ve proven that already, haven’t you?” Dorian sighs, “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help to you.” 

Haleir makes a skeptical “pft” sound. “You have.” 

“I can’t devise a way to get your voice back, nor have I gotten you out of Tevinter all due to my own afflictions.” 

Haleir looks at him “The way I see it, you have a lot to deal with yourself, and you’ve taken a lot of time and effort to care for me when you didn’t need to.” he squeezes Dorian’s hand as he reads. 

Dorian smiles sweetly, that kind and honest smile he only gives in private “It is alarmingly easy to care for someone like you.” His is voice low, and his eyes drift down to the elf’s lips. 

It makes his head spin, and for the slightest moment, Haleir is sure he’s going to lean in and close the gap between them. He wishes- forgetting about anything else in the world, the only thing he can think about is the feeling of Dorian’s hand in his and the closeness of his body. The way he swallows thickly, eyes blown out wide, it seems Dorian is just as affected. Yet, the mage tears his eyes away, redirecting his gaze toward the window. 

Haleir bites his lip, trying not to simmer in the feeling of disappointment that washes over him. 

Dorian looks contemplative for a moment before his eyes snap back to Haleir “Perhaps I can alter the original spell. I’m certainly not an expert in blood magic, but Andraste knows I’ve been reading enough about the basics,” There’s a spark back in his eyes as he speaks; it’s good to see, but part of Haleir is sad the moment between them was lost. “I will write to my colleague first thing in the morning for more details if that’s alright with you.” 

Haleir nods his head, but there must be something in his eyes that give away what he’s really thinking. 

“Everything alright?” Dorian asks 

Haleir smiles “Just tired. I- we should probably get some sleep.” 

“And I thought you’d want to stay up all night with me."

“Another time,” he smirks. 

Dorian gets up first, followed by Haleir as they prepare to go their separate ways. He turns to leave, but something stops him. He turns back to see Dorian watching. And even if he can’t fully follow his heart’s desire, he gives in just a little. Haleir wraps his arms around Dorian’s neck and pulls him tightly into a hug. It takes Dorian a moment to hug back, but he does. More than part of him wants to stay there forever, but he knows he can’t. He lingers before releasing Dorian, smiling up at him and mouthing the words “thank you”. 

A cacophony of thoughts plague his mind as he returns to his room. He has a lot to think about; should he be concerned about using blood magic? What exactly does that mean? Somehow, he can’t bring himself to focus on it. Dorian is the only thing on his mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any comments or kudos! I honestly mostly wrote this to get it out of my head, but it's nice to see some of you are enjoying it!


	6. Adventure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo. I made a mistake. I was going to put this chapter a lot later in the story, but then I realized I connected it with the events of the next chapter, so technically this should've happened before the last chapter butohwelltoolatenow.

It’s a quite morning on a particularly sunny day. Haleir sits in a sun spot shining through the study windows much like a cat would on a summer day. Dorian thumbs through blood magic tomes, one after another, small sighs or grunts of disagreement escape his lips until finally, he abruptly shuts the book. 

“Would you like to go to town with me?” Dorian asks. 

Haleir cocks his head curiously. 

“Don’t you think it’s time to get out of this blasted house? For all of Tevinter’s problems, Minrathous is a beautiful city and filled with plenty of sights to see.” 

“Anything notable?” Haleir writes, curiosity peaked. 

“I could show you 100 ways to shame your ancestors,” he grins. 

Haleir huffs amusedly, “When do we start?” 

Dorian chuckles “ _That_ will have to wait, but there are nice markets and plenty of beautiful architecture to see.” 

“That sounds nice.” 

\-- 

Dorian warns him to be careful. The market place will be in mixed company, commoners and elves, yes, but high society mages and magisters may be there too, and many humans will regard him with a sense of disdain. ‘Stay close, don’t touch anything, and just keep your eyes down if you see anyone important looking, and do your best not to stare anywhere for too long.’ It’s the first time Dorian has given him real orders, but he can see the nervousness in the mage’s eyes. And yet, he wants Haleir to experience some of the city, to share what he enjoys about it. 

The carriage ride into town isn’t long. It’s interesting being in a carriage, actually. He much prefers the freedom of having his own horse, or halla, but it’s a new experience. It’s certainly better than being pulled behind in a cage. 

Haleir can’t help but notice how Dorian dresses for the occasion. While he always seems to have a taste for fashion and fine clothing, he looks more formal today. His nails painted black, there are gold rings on nearly every finger, some with shining gems Haleir is sure are enchanted. He wears his family crest more prominently where he would normally tuck the snake shaped pendant into his shirt. His black cape nearly reaches the floor, lined with the goldest shimmering silk he’s ever seen. And his boots, glittering gold accenting black leather, reach up to his thighs, and that- that is quite a look. 

He’s beautiful in ways Haleir has never seen before. 

Haleir doesn’t know if he wants to look outside the carriage windows or at Dorian more. Large buildings pass them by, each adorned with intricate architecture, styles remnant of the old empire he’s only seen glimpses of in ruins hidden deep within the forests of Orlais. While Tevinter’s fashion is dark favoring muted colors and greyscale with only pops of color from the richest materials available, the architecture is anything but. Bright polished metals shimmer on every surface they can afford to embellish it seems. Each building is unique with larger more important buildings that shimmer of gold Haleir thinks might be dragon bone. 

There are more statues here than anywhere he has ever been, some of a great age according to Dorian. Minrathous is not only the largest city in Thedas, but also one of the oldest. _The eternal city_ they call it. Its well-fortified, and seeing it through the window of a carriage taking a scenic route of the city, he can see more clearly than ever why Dorian was sure Haleir could not escape the city alone. The island only has one way off: a long bridge stretching over the ocean, easily destroyed in case of emergency and heavily guarded. Nothing comes in or out without the guards’ notice. 

The market Dorian takes him to is vibrant with colors and life. It’s busy, bustling with noise and people of all types. Tents of various materials and colors line every open area. Merchants carry the simplest materials to oddities he has never seen. One tent is made of the brightest green leather he’s ever seen, he can only wonder what it’s made of. This is the one Dorian chooses to stop at first. 

“Master Pavus,” the merchant, an older man in purple robes, bows his head as he greets the mage. 

Dorian smiles gently as he replies, “Avanna, Cassius.” 

That is something he can’t help but notice- the way people seem to revere Dorian here. Where the crowd seems to mingle, no one bumps into Dorian as they do Haleir, all seeming to part for him. Elves don’t look directly at him, and merchants bow their heads slightly when they greet him. They don’t do that for those in more casual dress, and they don’t even look at Haleir. The hierarchy of Tevinter is easily observed, even for one less versed in the Imperium’s culture. 

It doesn’t bother him, per se; he’s experienced this type of treatment, to an extent, everywhere he’s traveled. Even Ferelden is filled with racists and ignorant hateful people. Normally, however, he gets snide remarks or stares that tell him people fear him for whatever barbaric acts they think the Dalish do. Here, he doesn’t even feel like he exists, as if he’s just an accessory. It would be more unnerving if the mage weren’t looking back to check on him so often. 

Dorian speaks with the vendor in Tevene, browsing wares Haleir knows are for magic but can’t quite pinpoint exactly what they are. It doesn’t take time for his eyes to wander elsewhere. Commotion catches his eye at the entrance of an alley leading away from the market. He sees animals of all sorts: nugs, birds, lizards, and... 

_Is that a dragonling?_

Haleir steps back to get a better look, bumping into someone as he does so. The gruff looking human with a prominent scar across his face glares down to him. 

“Rattus,” he hisses. It’s something Haleir has heard before- a slur for elves as far as he can tell. 

Before he can react, Dorian quickly pulls the elf back to his side by his elbow. 

Dorian smirks at him subtly, speaking quietly “We can look at the creatures in a moment if you’d like, but please don’t get in trouble in the meantime.” 

There must be some fight in his eyes, because Dorian keeps his hand on the crook of his elbow, gently rubbing his arm with his thumb until Haleir relaxes. 

Dorian continues bartering as if nothing happened, but Haleir can see the briefest expression of befuddlement given by the merchant. 

After Dorian buys some materials, he stops at another booth for books. Then, finally, he takes Haleir to where they are selling animals. He marvels at all the creatures from strange to common. He would, if he could, scoop up one of the mabari puppies imported from Ferelden in a second. His eyes shift to a group of Fennecs like the ones he saw often with his clan. Haleir tugs on Dorian’s sleeve to get his attention as he walks closer. 

His excitement is cut short when he notices the man from earlier only a few steps away, lingering in the crowd almost as if he had followed them. Another man, equally scarred and rough looking, stands with him. Oddly though, he notices his eyes aren’t on Haleir but Dorian. 

His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach for one of his daggers. He knows that won’t help the situation, though. He looks to Dorian carefully. 

“Something wrong?” Dorian asks curiously. 

Haleir huffs irritably. At a time like this, it would be nice to have his voice back. Writing a note in the busy crowds is both inconvenient and too obvious. He gives Dorian a polite smile, the type in which his eyes say it all. The mage slowly looks around them, not quite as inconspicuous as Haleir had hoped, but he certainly notices the man. 

“Hm, our friend from earlier. Doesn’t appear they’ve purchased anything.” he muses. “Let’s just go about our day and see how long they stick around. We can lose them on the way back.” Dorian smiles. 

Haleir glowers; he should have noticed earlier. It wouldn’t normally happen, but there’s some sense of safety he finds in Dorian’s presence that he allowed himself to be swept up in his amusement. 

He brings Haleir to a secluded food booth off the worn path where they get traditional Tevinter cuisine. Not all of it is wonderful, but most is good. In Tevinter, fish is more common of a meal than he’s used to. However, the large amount of sweet fruits and vegetables in each meal is something he’s come to love. Alone with their meals, he feels more comfortable writing notes to Dorian and discussing their day. Still, no matter where they go, there’s always an acute awareness they’re being followed. 

“So much for a carefree venture into town,” Dorian grimaces but only for a second. 

Haleir does his best not to look in the thugs’ direction “What do you think they want? Does this happen often???” 

“To be terribly honest, every time I’ve left the house since the marriage, I have been followed. I suspect they’re hired by my father to ensure I return to the estate. However, these ones look a little... worse for wear.” 

Haleir rolls his eyes making Dorian chuckle slightly “Indeed.” The mage seems to ponder the situation for a moment before he replies “Let’s have a little fun with them, then, shall we?” 

Haleir smirks, raising an eyebrow as a silent question. 

They weave through crowds of people and in and out of markets. Dorian takes them through cramped streets and down weaving garden paths, in between buildings and through the public docks, filled with large ships and fish markets the like of Haleir has never seen. 

He does his best to take in what he can of the city while staying alert for their pursuers. He would love to take his time, to reach out and touch the exotic fabrics sold at the stands and peruse through the unique trinkets, but part of him knows that isn’t a luxury he would have. Dorian explained there are some free elves in Tevinter, but they wouldn’t be seen in these districts. Much like Orlais, they live deep in poverty and struggle to survive the oppression they face at the hands of humans. But some must be sympathetic and kind like Dorian, right? 

“These bastards don’t give up easily, do they?” Dorian mutters. 

The mage casually leads them down a narrow path between booth after booth of fish markets until finally he spots a side road leading down an alleyway. He wraps his hand around Haleir’s wrist and tugs him towards it. “I think we can lose them here, hurry.” 

As soon as they’re around the corner, the two run through the twisting alleyways until finally they reach a secluded open area between buildings. 

Dorian is panting lightly from the running “Maker, I think we lost them.” He smirks, and Dorian can see the teasing in his eyes. “Don’t laugh at me! I’m practically held hostage in that blasted house. Of course I’m not used to running from thugs.” 

“I didn’t say anything,” he writes. 

“I assure you, I’m very much in shape in the ways which count,” Dorian says with his most charming smile, the one which puts color on Haleir’s cheeks. And he’s certainly right. That much hasn’t escaped Haleir; it’s actually quite surprising considering how much time the mage spends studying. 

He huffs amusedly and raises his eyebrows suggestively before turning his focus back on their current situation. Haleir’s eyes scan the area; the alcove is something of a small garden situated between buildings with paths reaching out in every direction. While it seems like a nice place to rest, it’s far too easy of a target. “We should get going.” 

“Ah, yes, now-” Dorian steps towards him, gazing around the space. His eyes linger on each path leading away from them and slowly, Haleir can see the panic growing in his eyes. “Which way did we come from?” 

_Makers._

His question is answered when their _friend_ walks through the alley, seemingly no longer concerned about being stealthy in his pursuit. Of course, that’s likely why Dorian chose back alleys- it's better not to be starting fights out in the open. 

“You certainly didn’t make this easy,” he says gruffly. 

Dorian sighs irritably as if their followers were nothing more than an irritation. Haleir, however, gets the feeling they mean more business than he expects. “Well, you’ve found us. What is it you want?” Dorian steps toward the man, putting himself between Haleir and him. “I’m sure we can talk this out.” 

“I really don’t think we can,” the scarred man spits back. 

Dorian’s posture stiffens and he grips his staff tightly. Haleir’s hands drift to his daggers as well, just waiting for the attack. 

The man has firey red hair and freckles covering his sun-tanned skin, much like that of a worker that has had little rest in his life. He’s burley, much wider than either of them. Though, while his appearance is that of a common thug, Haleir notices he also has a staff. A mage? 

“Whatever he’s paying you, I can pay more.” Dorian offers. 

The thug smirks “I really don’t think you can.” 

“I’d rather not hurt you.” 

That is not an option, though. The scarred man draws on his staff and in a blink of an eye, Dorian and him are trading spells back and forth. Haleir draws his daggers, turning in time to see a ragged looking elf dart out of one of the alleys. 

An ambush, how wonderful. 

It’s curious how the elf initially aims toward Dorian before she sees Haleir pull his daggers out. 

She stops short of him, the two appraising each other, waiting for the other to attack. “You’re really going to protect him. What is his life worth to you? A human master will never give the same for you,” she scoffs bitterly. If he had to guess, she’s likely one of the impoverished free elves driven to a life of crime. He can’t blame her for her distrust, but it doesn’t change their situation. 

He wants to tell her she doesn’t have to do this, but in no time she lunges at him, sword raised high. The two exchange blows, dancing around one another as the metal of their blades clash together. Distantly, he can hear Dorian and the other mage exchanging spells, occasional bursts of light flashing in his peripheral vision. She swings high from above, and Haleir blocks with his blades crossed, but it puts them in a lock, both struggling to push their blades toward the other. 

That’s when Haleir sees another thug run into the fold and straight toward Dorian. He wants to shout to him, warn him, but he can’t. He pushes harder against the other elf, finally overcoming her and driving his dagger into her throat. But it’s too slow. The thug lunges toward Dorian, and he watches as with only the raise of a hand, the man is engulfed in mighty flames. He goes down with a horrible screech, and Dorian turns only momentarily to ensure his enemy is defeated, glancing at Haleir. 

It’s surprising to say the least. Dorian uses magic regularly, but he hasn’t witnessed a spell like that. And yet, it barely took a thought for Dorian. The mage he’s facing cannot be nearly as skilled or powerful, but they spar back and forth for some time. 

It was foolish, really, a rookie mistake. But he can’t help but watch Dorian cast spell after spell. Each one the gang leader throws at him, he deflects and casts one stronger. Mesmerizing bolts of fire fly from his staff, knocking the other man farther back. And he’s graceful the whole while, never stumbling or showing an ounce of strain. Dorian sneers at him and mocks him, but it seems his goal isn’t to kill the man. To question him, perhaps. 

When his guard is down, that’s when one last assailant pounces down from a nearby rooftop. Haleir’s only option is to put himself between the man and Dorian. And that’s just what he does, with an alarming lack of thought on the wisdom of such actions. He isn’t well prepared for it and earns a gash on his forearm in the initial brawl, but he’s able to deflect the other man back. It isn’t long and he ends up on his back, the hooded man leering over him, blade nearing his neck. 

Dorian turns just in time to see when Haleir drive his dagger into the man. However, the bright red smattering of blood dripping down his arm is impossible to ignore. From this distance, it's hard to tell how hurt he really is, but with the positioning of it, it wouldn't be surprising if he nicked an artery. Dorian turns back to the mage; decidedly no longer playing with him, he sends a line of fire blazing to hit the mage who falls on impact. But he’s not dead. It gives Dorian a choice: pursue the thug for questioning, or check on Haleir. 

A cloud of purple smoke encases the man in one moment, and the next he is fleeing for the hills, so filled with terror he all but forgets his injuries. Haleir’s isn’t sure what happened, but he recalls Dorian explaining his necromancy spells could be used to terrify his opponents. 

Dorian is by his side immediately, knees in the dirt. 

“What were you thinking? Are you okay?” Dorian fusses. 

_Some thank you._ Haleir rolls his eyes as he props himself up on his elbows, Dorian helping him up to a seated position. The mage demandingly takes ahold of his forearm, his eyebrows furrow further as he appraises the wound. It burns. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s felt something like this. Begrudgingly, he pulls out his paper and quill to write “I think they used some sort of poison or venom on their blades.” he shrugs. 

“Andraste’s arse, no need to panic,” Dorian says sarcastically. 

“I know you can heal me,” Haleir smirks. It does hurt and _bad_ , but showing that would do nothing but make the situation worse. He’s not sure if Dorian is flattered or frustrated, but he smiles nevertheless, adverting his eyes almost as if he wished to hide it. 

“Of course, but you didn’t have to put yourself in harm’s way,” Dorian puzzles. His hand hovers over the wound until slowly, Haleir can feel a sort of tingling sensation as their gash begins healing and the burning fades. 

It’s odd to Haleir that Dorian seems so determined to do everything himself. In fact, after being catered to by him, Haleir has begun to feel somewhat useless. This felt like a way he could finally contribute meaningfully. “We’re a team, Dorian. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you- even if you can handle it by yourself.” 

“I-” Dorian begins. The spell sputters to a stop for a second or two before he casts it again. It’s as though Haleir can physically feel Dorian is flustered, the blush creeping onto his cheeks, and it makes Haleir smile all the more. “Thank you.” he finishes, composure all but regained aside from the sweeter than normal smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

\--- 

Once they arrive back home, if one could call it that, Dorian and Haleir both take armfuls of the supplies they collected: books, scrolls, amulets, some clothing and food, and of course wine. Haleir carries the heavier items in a satchel while Dorian clumsily scoops the books into his arms. 

Dorian smiles as they approach the large home. “I must say, I had no idea you were so ferocious with those knives.” 

“You know what they say about Dalish” Haleir scrolls once they stop in front of the door. 

“They say a lot of things about Dalish,” Dorain snorts “What exactly are you referring to?” 

Haleir shoots him a wicked grin before writing “Don’t fuck with us.” 

Dorian laughs as he pushes the front door of the mansion open. “Indeed.” 

Despite their run in, he can’t help but feel a lightness in his heart- something that has been happening more and more often as of late. He will need to investigate their attackers more, of course, but he is starting to question whether they truly came from his father or not... 

“It was a successful trip, don’t you think? Aside from the attack, of course.” 

Haleir raises an eyebrow at him curiously. 

“You can’t swing a dead cat in Tevinter without hitting someone looking to kill, kidnap, or rob someone like me. And clearly they weren’t a real threat,” he shrugs “Perhaps we should have more outings.” 

Haleir writes using his hand to support the paper causing his handwriting to suffer. It almost makes the message more amusing with letters bent out of shape and awkward in spots “Next time we shame our ancestors?” 

Dorian laughs, louder this time. He lets the hunger he feels show in his eyes if only for a moment, allowing his gaze to roam over the elf, taking in the details of his features and trace the bold markings on his face, stopping at where they meet his lips. “I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do.” 

He knows Haleir notices in the way he smirks, a self-satisfied twist of his mouth. 

It is a noise at the top of the banister which draws his attention away. He turns to the sound only to be met with suspicious eyes from Lady Isabella, and it feels as though his heart skips a beat in the worst of ways. Any exchange between them would stand out to her; she treats even her hired servants with contempt, but this... He wouldn’t be surprised if she figured out how very _not_ interested in her he is based on the look he gave Haleir alone. 

“Bloody hell,” he mutters quietly, “We best get back to the study and quickly.” 

Haleir follows him deeper into the house, but they must pass under the banister where Isabella stands. As they approach, she finally speaks. 

“You got a letter today,” she says distastefully. “Addressed from a _Rilienus_.” 

_Motherfucker_ , if she read that- It takes all of Dorian’s will to keep a straight face “is that so? I didn’t know you fetched the mail yourself.” 

She laughs haughtily, that fake mocking tone that echoes in the large entrance room. “Don’t be foolish. _My_ servants work for me.” 

He resists the urge to grit his teeth or show any irritation or panic, though it certainly is a proper time to do so. “You certainly are harsh enough with them.” 

“What can I say? I know my place in the Imperium and they know theirs.” she smiles with painted lips, though no kindness hides behind it. With that, she tosses the scroll over the banister for Dorian. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and for any kudos or nice comments :) it's always encouraging to see some people are enjoying this! 
> 
> I regret naming Dorian's with Isabella. I didn't know there was actually a line about the real name of the woman his family planned to have him marry. Oh well, also too late now.


	7. The Visit

Another ambush in such a short amount of time. Dorian would prefer back alley brawls to this, and yet, he finds himself trapped- an invasion in his safest place. How could this have happened? 

“I just want what’s best for you,” Halward, Dorian’s father, says for the fifteenth time since he arrived. 

It started well enough. As well as it could, anyways. Halward paraded around his son’s new home, observing all its excessive luxuries. That was before Dorian knew he was visiting. He burst through the library doors so unceremoniously it was as if he thought he lived there too; no knock, no letter to announce his visit, nothing to allow Dorian to prepare himself. 

Falling so close to their incident in the city, he’s exceedingly touchy. He tried to be civil, but his anger got the best of him and it wasn’t long until they started arguing again. “Did you ever stop to think maybe you don’t know what’s best for me?” 

Halward sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose “look at all this, Dorian,” he gestures to the room around them “You have a beautiful home, a beautiful wife, and all the resources to pursue your research. You’re on the perfect path to becoming a magister.” 

Dorian clenches his teeth tighter. _Beautiful wife._ He just had to add that in there, didn’t he? Is it some sort of trick to see if Dorian protests so he can scold him or threaten him again? Or is he just that ignorant? He has to be more careful with his words. Too much of a fight puts him at risk. 

He takes a moment to think carefully when he notices Haleir roll his eyes at Halward. The elf had been pretending to organize books nearby. Dorian would normally protest to being eavesdropped on, but there’s something almost protective about the way he stays close. 

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem that has slid past his father either. 

“You keep your elf on too loose a leash,” Halward grimaces, turning his nose up at Haleir. Haleir quickly adverts his eyes back to the shelf- too little to late, though. 

Dorian deflects the comment “You would know about keeping people on leashes. Do tell your men not to be so skittish. I would appreciate not being attacked next time I decide to take a detour on my way home.” 

In reality, Dorian isn’t so sure the thugs were from his father, but it isn’t impossible. They could have been fight-happy or may have intended to render them unconscious to bring back to the mansion if they thought Dorian was making a run for it- which he most certainly was trying to make it appear that way. 

Halward actually looks confused, the prominent wrinkles between his eyebrows showing as he ponders the statement, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why would I hire anyone to attack you?” 

“Of course, you don’t,” Dorian says sarcastically. “You would pay just anything to ensure your fucking legacy is secured, wouldn’t you?! Even if it meant kidnapping your own son!” 

“Dorian, please-” 

“I acquiesced to your demands, and yet you still try to control me? Just make me a tranquil why don’t you- or maybe I shouldn’t tempt you.” Dorian continues. 

Halward crosses his arms, seemingly at the end of his rope “Enough!” he shouts, though Dorian doesn’t flinch. It is nothing new to him. “I’m simply saying you shouldn’t go parading around town with a slave when you’re neglecting your wife.” 

Ah, so he did run into lady Isabella before finding Dorian. He wonders how much she said. 

“I needed to get supplies from town. You gave me a slave; why shouldn’t I use him? Even if it isn’t for the use you intended...” 

“Is it not?” 

Dorian is taken back by the question- no, _accusation_. He realizes then what his father must think: not just that he’s using the elf for sexual pleasure, but that he’s grown to having feelings for him. And while the latter might be true, that isn’t something he can let his father see. 

“Excuse me?” he does his best not to stutter. 

“You know it’s not a _person_ , right?” Halward pinches the bridge of his nose again, and Dorian can see just how upset he’s become. 

Dorian does his best to maintain his composure, but on the inside, his blood goes cold. Each second he doesn’t reply a deeper frown grows on Halward’s face. _Maker_ it does remind him of the same expression he gave when Dorian confronted him about planning to use blood magic on him. It sets off a panic in his mind; he has to lie, he has to play the part and be the evil Altus his father so hopes for- if not for his safety, Haleir’s. 

He does his best to sound confident and unbothered, but even the words feel wrong in his mouth. “Of course he’s not. He’s just a house elf.” 

The words make him sick and worse he knows Haleir can hear. He keeps his eyes firm on his father, but in his peripheral vision he sees Haleir freeze in his spot. 

“You certainly haven’t trained it as such.” Halward scoffs. 

_“_ _Vishante Kaffas_ _!_ You took a creature from the wilds and expect it to act like one raised to serve by Tevinter masters? Don’t be ridiculous.” 

The answer seems to be good enough for his father, grimace receding at least partially. “You ought to be careful, then, who might see your leniency and think otherwise.” 

Dorian glares menacingly, “I know what I’m doing.” 

“I certainly hope so, son.” 

_Oh, that word. Really?_ He really is a master manipulator. 

“Don’t-” he hisses. Dorian pushes his anger down, breathing deeply. “I believe it’s time for you to leave.” 

Dorian glances back to Haleir as he exits the library, but Haleir won’t look at him, and he knows he deserves it. But what else can he do? 

Dorian walks his father to the door and says his goodbyes as formally and briefly as he can. “Your mother sends her love,” he says, but Dorian knows it isn’t true. She never really has. Perhaps that’s what makes his severed relationship with his father so much worse. 

It takes a moment for him to recompose himself once Halward is gone. Deep breaths still his shaky hands only a little bit. There’s an energy running through him that makes him want to set something on fire or weep- which, he’s not sure. More than anything, he’s concerned about Haleir. 

Dread builds in his stomach as he approaches the old wooden doors. _Maker_. He already knows it’s not going to go well. When he steps into the library, he doesn’t see Haleir. For a split second, he almost fears the elf has left completely. Upon wandering inside though, he notices his form sitting on the ground between bookcases, pieces of his chestnut hair falling in his face, his hands balled into fists. 

He can almost feel the anger radiating off him as Haleir defiantly refuses to look at him. 

“Please don’t be hurt. You know I have to play along.” Dorian says gently, almost pleading, as he approaches Haleir. He sits on the floor near him, though not too close, hoping for an answer. Hoping this won’t be a fight. 

It takes a moment, but haleir eventually pushes the note toward him, written long before he returned to the library. “How are you any different than the rest of them if you're too ashamed to even call me a person?” 

It hits Dorian in the worst of ways, like a physical pain in his heart. He knows it’s true, but… 

“I was trying to protect you, Amatus!” _Kaffas_ _, did he really just say that?_ Dorian tries to push the thought away; he can contemplate why that term slipped out later. Now, he needs to focus on making this better. “He’s unraveling; he’s become a madman all for his legacy. And it’s not just him we should worry about. If- when this all goes south, if they think we’re involved at all, they _will_ kill you just to make me suffer.” 

Haleir doesn’t respond. Stubbornly looking away from him. Doesn’t he understand? Halward would perform blood magic on his own son; he would risk erasing any or all that made Dorian himself. At this point, he is sure his father would not blink an eye removing anything he thinks is holding Dorian back. 

“I- I’m sorry,” he says softly. He feels at a loss for words and yet there is so much he wants to say. 

Haleir snatches the parchment to scribble angrily, never once looking at Dorian “Am I just a creature from the wilds to you? Just your friend when it’s convenient?” 

“I know what I said was horrible and so very wrong, and trust me when I say I don’t and have never believed any of that. I shouldn’t have, even if it was just to humor him.” Dorian closes his eyes, breathing deeply. He tries to think of anything, anything at all to fix this. The words fall out of his mouth before he can even realize it “I’m just... afraid. You mean so much to me, more than just some friend. I don’t want to lose you.” it comes out hushed and far too raw for his liking, but it’s the truth whether he likes it or not. 

He keeps his eyes closed, afraid to see any reaction until eventually he feels Haleir nearly crawl into his lap, wrapping his arms around Dorian’s waist and burying his face in his chest. 

Dorian opens his mouth to say something, but no words come to mind. Instead, he wraps his arms around Haleir. He wonders if Haleir can hear his heartbeat and how it is pounding- because he’s starting to get lightheaded at the thought of what he just said and the feeling in his chest that’s a combination of stabbing pain and the fluttering of butterflies he’s only felt once before. 

And he knows. He knows what he’s feeling so terrifyingly strong in his heart. 

\--- 

After Halward’s visit, Dorian was all out of sorts; the usually focused mage was restless and distractible all evening. Eventually, Haleir asked him if they could open a bottle of wine and take it easy for the evening. He knew suggesting it for Dorian’s sake wouldn’t work, so he framed it as his own preference. 

It worked well enough; before long, Dorian was laying on the floor of the library, venting about the encounter while Haleir sat nearby against a bookshelf. He never gets tired of watching Dorian’s façade fade away in the few, and ever increasing, moments which he allows himself to be vulnerable. 

Dorian’s confession replays in his mind over and over again. He hadn’t realized what the threat of blood magic really did to Dorian in the long run. Fear isn’t the emotion he expected to see from him, but Dorian truly is afraid. He didn’t flinch when his father shouted or said terrible things; the illusion almost tricked Haleir, after all. But during their argument and as Dorian recounted his bitterness, he saw that tinge of fear in his eyes- fear of what has happened and what may come- very serious and very real physical consequences. 

And then there’s their feelings for each other. 

Even the thought sends a sensation like the fluttering of butterfly wings in his stomach, warmer than the fire Dorian creates and twice as magical. Oh, how he wants to talk to Dorian about it. He wants to ask what ‘more than a friend’ means. _Fenehdis_ , curse his soft heart. Quick to run into trouble, quick to get caught up in his emotions, and quicker to give himself to others. How many times has he gotten hurt this way? Far too many to count, and this _isn’t_ the time to think about blushing confessions. 

It's probably foolish anyways. Where could something between them really go? Dorian is married, beside the fact he’s never so much as touched his wife of over two months. He’s a Tevinter Altus in line to become a magister, and Haleir is a Dalish elf. There is no future here for him. But then again, is there _really_ one for Dorian? 

“Are you alright?” Dorian asks, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Haleir nods, offering him a weak smile as he pushes the thoughts away for now. He can brood another time. Now, he should enjoy the evening, fine wine, and good company. 

Dorian takes a sip of wine as he looks at him, really looks at him. When he stares this way, Haleir can swear he sees desire in his eyes, but tonight there’s sadness there too. 

“I would like to try to heal your voice this week if you’re willing.” he says softly. 

It’s so sudden and abrupt; he’s hit with a wave of excitement, but he can already feel nervousness building in the pit of his stomach. “Did you find another spell?” Haleir writes, eyes wide. 

“No, but,” Dorian blushes, that deep dark red tinting his cheeks up to the tips of his ears, and Haleir can’t figure out what it is that would cause such a thing. “I’m confident this one will work.” 

“What changed?” he writes. 

“I- I know I have what I need now.” 

The blush stays around for some time after that, and something in the way Dorian looks at him seems to have changed- something deeper, a realization of sorts he can’t quite put his finger on. Or perhaps he’s afraid to. But by the fade, he could bask in it forever. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk how I feel about this chapter, but  
> Thanks for reading and also for anyone who left a nice comment or kudos :)


	8. Oblivious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes blood magic, so trigger warning for mentioning blood (but it's not violent). If it bothers you, I've marked where it starts and ends with asterisks (**********). Also, sorry I don't really know how blood magic works, but it's magic soooo the rules are flexible, right?

It took a few days to procure the materials they needed for the ritual, but he has everything now. Tomorrow- tomorrow is the day. 

Dorian may not be good at admitting his feelings, but when they sat in that library after his father’s visit, he could not deny the weight of the risks he has taken for Haleir, nor the intensity of feelings he feels at the slightest thought of losing him. _Andraste preserve him_ , he knew what he’s been feeling, and it’s far more than sheer loneliness or physical attraction could cause. There’s something horrifying realizing the patience and understanding Haleir has shown him. 

Dorian knew just what he was feeling the second that damned term of endearment fell from his lips. _Amatus_. How could he say that to a man he has only known for a short period of time in such a horrific situation?! It’s practically sacred in his circles. His own mother doesn’t call his father that. Yet, he won’t truly admit any of that to himself- only enough to agree their bond is deep enough to perform the ritual. 

His heart beats hard against his chest as he stands outside of the rickety wooden door to the elf’s room. He breathes deeply. He just wants to spend some time together. He knows the risks they face tomorrow, and if he only has this chance, why is it wrong to give into his feelings just a little? Nothing he would regret, but something to sate the anxiety. Dorian lifts his hand to knock on the door when it swings open before he can. Haleir stands in the doorway, cocking his head at him. 

He holds up a note, already written “I heard you approach a few minutes ago” 

“Right,” Dorian tries to respond smoothly. “I didn’t want to disturb your beauty rest. I know not everyone is naturally as blessed as I am” 

Haleir huffs amusedly “Not everyone has such a big ego either” he writes after sitting on the edge of his bed. 

Dorian holds his hand to his chest as if he were injured “I do resent that. But I didn’t say you weren’t pretty.” 

He rolls his eyes at Dorian and pats the spot next to him to invite Dorian to sit. 

“I- um” he sits down but leaves just enough space between them so that they don’t touch. “Oh- this mattress is horrible. I really ought to get you a better one.” 

Haleir rolls his eyes, “I’m used to sleeping on the floor. Some of us aren’t so high maintenance” he teases. 

Dorian chuckles. He likes that Haleir is comfortable teasing him. He likes Haleir- no, wait. That’s not what he means. He likes his company. He likes that some one seems to finally get him- not that that means he should get attached. Because he specifically shouldn’t. 

Dorian sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. _Maker_ , he’s losing his grip on his feelings at an increasingly rapid pace. 

“Something wrong?” Haleir writes. Dorian, stuck in his own mind, doesn’t notice until he elbows him, holding out the paper. 

“Oh, just thinking,” 

Haleir quickly adds “About?” 

“Nothing- nothing important, I suppose.” he lies. 

“Did you come here to think or was there something else?” Haleir writes. 

“I-” Dorian breathes deeply “Tomorrow is going to be risky you know.” Haleir nods as he continues to talk “I was just thinking, it might be nice- for comfort’s sake, if you’re nervous, I’ve been told I give very comforting hugs.” 

Haleir grins that smug way he does when he teases Dorian. He knows the elf has some smart remark on his mind, but he doesn’t write it. He’s too quick to cuddle up to Dorian, his face against his chest and arms wrapped around his waist. 

Dorian returns the embrace quickly this time. It’s a relief to feel wanted, even for a minute and even if it is on a platonic level. 

*********************

“Good morning,” Dorian chirps as soon as Haleir enters the library. The past week has been eventful to say the least. 

It’s odd to think about, but the pair spent most of the night talking in Haleir’s room- or, well, communicating. Dorian held him for a long time. He was so reluctant to let him go. It was nice to feel another’s embrace after so long, but Haleir would be a foolish liar if he didn’t admit it made his heartbeat just a little faster than it should have. 

He doesn’t know what time Dorian slipped away, but it was late enough that Haleir can feel his own exhaustion, and he’s sure the mage has been busy preparing the spell since early in the morning. Dorian’s desk is surrounded by floating books already, and there’s a vile half filled with blood on it. Haleir raises his eyebrow at him. 

“Did you sleep?” Haleir writes. 

“Not much, but that’s alright. This ritual takes a fair amount of time to set up.” He answers. 

“Need me to do anything?” 

“I’ll need a bit of blood, but let’s get breakfast first. Wouldn’t want you fainting on me.” 

There are risks; there are always risks with blood magic as far as Haleir knows. Dorian warned him it may not work, something could go wrong, and they could end up injured. He seems less concerned about that now, but Haleir can’t help but feel he’s hiding something. 

The vile that was on Dorian’s desk is filled to the brim by midday, half with Dorian’s blood and half with Haleir’s. Dorian methodically cuts only their palms, a single red line in each. He lays out dried flowers in a circle only big enough for the two to stand in, and burns incense in the air- though Dorian jokes that is just to set the mood. Once it’s ready, they wait for sunset, passing the time between them. 

“If it works, have you thought about what your first word will be?” Dorian asks, lounging against his desk while Haleir sits nearby on the floor. He always offers him a chair, but Haleir prefers it this way. It reminds him of home. 

“Fenedhis” Haleir writes in pretty scrolling letters, smirking as he shows Dorian. 

“What does that mean?” 

“We use it like motherfucker, I guess.” 

Dorian laughs heartily. “Of course.” 

Haleir grimaces slightly, writing “What if I don’t recognize my voice?” it has crossed his mind a few times. He still thinks he thinks with his voice, but will it sound odd to him? Or will his voice be different? 

Dorian seems taken back by the thought “I’m sure you have a lovely voice.” 

“Oh really? Anything you want to hear me say?” Haleir writes, giving Dorian his best suggestive eyebrow wiggle. 

Dorian is smoother with flirting than him. The mage smirks “I wouldn’t mind hearing my name, among other things.” 

Haleir huffs in amusement. 

“Ah,” Dorian stares out the window where pink and golden light is beginning to stream though. “Looks like it’s time to begin.” 

Dorian positions him in the circle of flowers. It’s odd, the room looks more like it’s arranged for a strange wedding than a blood ritual. It helps calm Haleir’s nerves a bit at least. 

Dorian uses his dagger to re-open the gashes on his own hands from earlier that day. They’re deep, guaranteed to scar, so it doesn’t take long for blood to flow freely. As Dorian grips his staff with one hand, he places his other over Haleir’s throat where the scar is. The feeling of the mage’s blood slowly dripping down his neck is unnerving to say the least. 

As he begins to recite the Tevene words, Haleir notices the blood from the vile floating in the air to circle the rune in Dorian’s staff. The red liquid begins to glow and slowly dissipate. The whole time, Dorian keeps his eyes locked on Haleir. The red glow grows brighter and brighter until a powerful flash of light erupts between them, sending Haleir to the floor. 

Dorian dives to catch him before he can hurt himself. Cradling the elf in his arms, he checks for changes in his condition. His own blood is everywhere making it difficult to tell if anything changed. 

A moment of panic hits him until Haleir’s eyes flutter open, and finally, he speaks “Dorian?” his voice is deeper than Dorian expected, but it’s smooth as velvet. 

“It worked!” Dorian exclaims. 

“It worked!” Haleir echoes, louder this time. His hands fly to his throat as if checking for any changes before suddenly his arms are wrapped around Dorian. He embraces him tightly, and it takes Dorian a moment to follow suit and hug back. “I can talk again!” he laughs lightly; it’s practically musical, more beautiful than birdsong in the morning. “Dorian, thank you. Thank you so much.” 

“You scared me for a second there. I thought something went wrong.” Dorian admits, “if you wanted me to hold you, you could just ask.” They both laugh. 

Haleir finally pulls away, but he keeps his hands on Dorian’s shoulders “Thank you, really. You didn’t have to do this, but you did. You’re a good man.” 

“I wouldn’t push it that far yet. Charming? Yes. Terribly handsome? Of course!” 

The pair laugh again, contagious bubbly laughter that’s hard to control. It’s only when they’ve stopped that Dorian realizes blood is all over both of them, both still bleeding from the cuts he made. 

“Oh, Maker,” he turns up his nose. “We’re a mess!” 

Haleir laughs at the realization “I admit I was a little distracted.” 

“We must celebrate, but let’s clean up first.” 

He heals their hands, but there will be scars: perfectly matching marks on their palms, right down to the angle of the cut. It’s painfully obvious how each part of this spell required equal sacrifice from the pair; there had to be utter trust between them so that whatever one experienced, the other would too as if they were one. 

He tries not to think about it too much, 

********************

He takes what must be the quickest bath of his lifetime, eager to commemorate their momentous success with a fresh drink and joy in their hearts. He’s eager to speak with Haleir again, to focus on each word he says and the tone of his voice. Failure would have done nothing to deter his wishful heart, but to bask in the voice of another, to hear the elated feeling of reclaiming what had once been taken- it’s something else. 

He feels as though he has done something right for once; the values he has stood up for so long feel less like theoretical concepts and more like actualized possibilities for change. He doesn’t let himself consider the other details- that he has bound his life to another, nor the emotions which built in him throughout the process. 

A knocking at the door acts as his savior, demanding his attention elsewhere. Dorian opens the door to find Haleir, grinning from ear to ear. His hair is damp, taking on a darker color of brown and curling slightly at the ends. 

“Took you long enough,” Dorian teases, perhaps a little too obvious about his desire not to be left alone with his thoughts. 

Haleir snorts “I didn’t expect you to finish cleaning up so fast. Thought it was hard work being beautiful.” 

“Of course,” he blushes “Though, I’m sure you know that.” 

Haleir smiles warmly as he enters the guest chambers. It’s the first time he’s been here with them usually meeting in the library or other more public areas of the mansion. He lets his eyes roam over the room. It’s an odd combination of personal and impersonal. It’s large by any reasonable standards, though only half of what the master bedroom is. However, it’s more than enough to house a desk, several bookshelves, multiple couches, and a whole cabinet of alcohol, with plenty of room for socialization. Aside from the booze, the fireplace and a large window facing the gardens are his favorite things about the room. 

Dorian has only brought a small handful of personal items here as to keep up his façade with Lady Isabella- though the Maker knows she’s seen through it long ago. In all honesty, sleeping in their shared quarters would likely be more dangerous for him now. The longer they stay here, the more he begins to think his wife is a ticking bomb, about to shatter like a jar full of bees thrown out a fourth-floor window over stone floors. That is to say, it will be dramatic and with plenty of collateral damage. 

“We should discuss getting out of here,” Dorian thinks aloud. 

“I just got here,” Haleir chides, giving him that dubious smirk. It’s almost worse now that he can hear the teasing in his voice. 

Dorian represses the urge to roll his eyes in response. “Tevinter, I mean.” 

Haleir laughs “I know what you meant. Let’s just celebrate tonight, Dorian. Save your worries for tomorrow.” 

Worries? Was it that obvious? Dorian may not be the best at ‘the game’, as the Orlesians put it, but he considers himself fairly good at concealing his less flattering emotions- the ones that signal weakness in Tevinter. However, Haleir seems to always see past him. Or is it that being around Haleir makes him lower his guard...? 

“Ah, right,” Dorian says. “Whiskey or wine then?” 

“I haven’t had whiskey in ages,” he smiles. 

“Wonderful!” 

Dorian gets out a fine whiskey and glasses for each of them, and before he knows it, with alcohol buzzing in their systems, they’re lounging on an overpriced couch, Haleir resting his feet on Dorian’s lap, Dorian’s hand resting on his shin. Close, but not too close as they chat about anything and everything. Haleir is more talkative than usual, enjoying using his voice once again. And Dorian is all too happy to enable him, asking him as many questions as he can think of just to hear him speak more. 

Their journey isn’t over, but they’re one step closer. It’s something worth celebrating, a real reason to be happy, and he will take what he can get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been looking forward to this chapter for quite awhile! I had slightly different plans for the ending of it, but eh it just wasn't working. 
> 
> :) Thanks so much for anyone who left a nice comment or kudos!


End file.
